Why did I fear to let thee stay
To look on me and pass away
Forgivingly, as in its May

A broken flower, Rosaline ?

I thought not, when my dagger strook,
Of thy blue eyes: I could not brook

The past all pleading in one look
Of utter sorrow, Rosaline !

I did not know when thou wast dead;

A blackbird whistling overhead

Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled,

But dared not leave thee, Rosaline !

A low, low moan, a light twig stirred

By the upspringing of a bird,

A drip of blood, were all I heard,—

Then deathly stillness, Rosaline!

The sun rolled down, and very soon,

Like a great fire, the awful moon

Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon

Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline

The stars came out; and, one by one,

Each angel from his silver throne

Looked down and saw what I had done :

I dared not hide me, Rosaline!

I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry
Against me to God's quiet sky,
I thought I saw the blue lips try
To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin
To hear that voice all icy thin
Slide forth and tell my deadly sin
To hell and heaven, Rosaline !

But no voice came, and then it seemed,

That, if the very corpse had screamed,
The sound like sunshine glad had streamed

Through the dark stillness, Rosaline!

Dreams of old quiet glimmered by,

And faces loved in infancy

Came and looked on me mournfully,

Till my heart melted, Rosaline!

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
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 !

1841.

ALLEGRA.

I WOULD more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before,— Thou Hebe, 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 splendours rife,

A songful lark with eagle's eyes.