I saw my mother's dying bed,
I heard her bless me, and I shed
Cool tears, - but, lo! the ghastly dead
Stared me to madness, Rosaline !

And then, amid the silent night,
I screamed with horrible delight,

And in my brain an awful light by the deev ustavo " i.

Did seem to crackle, Rosaline !
It is my curse! sweet memories fall
From me like snow, and only all
Of that one night, like cold worms, crawl
My doomed heart over, Rosaline !

Thine eyes are shut : they never more
Will leap thy gentle words before

To tell the secret o'er and o'er

Thou couldst not smother, Rosaline !
Thine eyes are shut; they will not shine
With happy tears, or, through the vine
That hid thy casement, beam on mine,
Sunful with gladness, Rosaline !

Thy voice I never more shall hear,
Which in old times did seem so dear,
That, ere it trembled in 'mine ear,
My quick heart heard it, Rosaline !
Would I might die! I were as well,
Ay, better, at my home in hell,
To set for aye a burning spell
'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline !

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes,
Wherein such blessed memories,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline ?
Woe 's me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in churchyard lie,
Would it might be so, Rosaline !

ALLEGRA.

I would more natures were like thine,

That never casts a glance before, — Thou Hete, who thy heart's bright wine

So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine,

And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life ;

With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife,

Gazest undazzled at the skies, With all their blazing splendors rife,

A songful lark with eagle's eyes.

Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours

Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours

Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal-stars were flowers

That shook their seeds round thee on earth.

And thou, to lull thine infant rest,

Wast cradled like an Indian child ; All pleasant winds from south and west

With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest,

Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.

Thine every fancy seems to borrow

A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow,

A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, Thy heart is certain of to-morrow,

Though 'yond to-day it never peers.

I would more natures were like thine,

So innocently wild and free, Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine,

Like sunny wavelets in the sea, Making us mindless of the brine

In gazing on the brilliancy.

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