Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes! | Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon Unflleted, and of unequal lengths.
The visions will return! And lo! he stays: A curious picture, with a master's haste
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more Peeld from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!
The pool becomes a mirror; and behold

Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there, Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried
And there the half-uprooted tree-but where, On the fine skin! She has been newly here;
O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-
On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone ! The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch!
Homeward she steals through many a woodland For this mayest thou flower early, and the sun,
maze

Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth! Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel !
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids !
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook, More beautiful than whom Alcæus wood,
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou The Lesbian woman of immortal song!
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,

O child of genius! stately, beautiful,
The Naiad of the mirror!

And full of love to all, save only me,
Not to thee,

And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,
O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale: Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood
Gloomy and dark art thou—the crowded firs Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straight-
Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,

way Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:

On to her father's house. She is alone! Save when the shy kingfishers build their nest The night draws on-such ways are hard to hitOn thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild And fit it is I should restore this sketch, stream!

Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn This be my chosen haunt-emancipate

To keep the relic? 'twill but idly feed From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, The passion that consumes me. Let me haste! I rise and trace its devious course.

O lead,

The picture in my hand which she has left, Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. She cannot blame me that I follow'd her; Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs,

And I may be her guide the long wood through.
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves
Dart off asunder with an angry sound,
How soon to reunite! And see! they meet,

THE NIGHT-SCENE.
Each in the other lost and found : and see
Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye!
With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds,
The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,

You loved the daughter of Don Manrique !
Dimness o’erswum with lustre! Such the hour
Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds;

Loved ?
And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!
i pass forth into light-I find myself

Did you not say you woo'd her ?
Beneath a weeping birch, (most beautiful
Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods,)

EARL HENRY.
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock

Once I lovel
That overbrows the cataract. How bursts

Her whom I dared not woo!
The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills
Fold in behind each other, and so make
A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem,

And wood, perchance
With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, One whom you loved not!
Half hid by rocks and fruit trees. At my feet
The whortleberries are bedewed with spray,
Dash'l upwards by the furious waterfall.

O! I were most base, How solemnly the pendent ivy mass

Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her, Swings in its winnow: all the air is calm.

Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she The smoke from cottage chimneys, tinged with Met my advances with impassion’d pride, light,

That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Rises in columns; from this house alone,

Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd Close by the waterfall, the column slants,

The golden circlet in his hand, rejected And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this? My suit with insult, and in memory That cottage, with its slanting chimney smoke, Of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head, And close beside its porch a sleeping child, Her blessings overtook and baffled them! His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog-- But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

SANDOVAL.

EARL HENRY.

SANDOVAL.

SANDOVAL.

EARL HENRY.

ANDOVAL

EARL HENRY.

I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers.

Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously,

I now will go-all objects there will teach me But Oropeza

Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.

Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet herBlessings gather round her! Say nothing of me-I myself will seek herWithin this wood there winds a secret passage,

Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment Beneath the walls, which opens out at length

And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. Into the gloomiest covert of the garden

[Earl HENRY retires into the wood. The night ere my departure to the army,

SANDOVAL, (alone.)
She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,
And to that covert by a silent stream,

O Henry! always strivest thou to be great
Which, with one star reflected near its marge,

By thine own act-yet art thou never great Was the sole object visible around me.

But by the inspiration of great passion. No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;

The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up So deep, so dark, so close the umbrage o'er us!

And shape themselves : from earth to heaven they No leaflet stirrid ;-yet pleasure hung upon

stand, The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.

As though they were the pillars of a temple, A little further on an arbour stood,

Built by Omnipotence in its own honour ! Fragrant with flowering trees—I well remember But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness

Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand, Their snow-white blossoms made-thither she led And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins !

me, To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembledI beard her heart beat-if 'twere not my own.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,

SANDOVAL.

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAY

A rude and scaring note, my friend!

OF HER INNOCENCE.

EARL HENRY.

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill-besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray!
When the partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, headless leaf!

Love the dalliance of the gale.

0! no!
I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
Th’inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:
So love grew mightier from the fear, and nature,
Fleeing from pain, shelter'd herself in joy.
The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us:
We were all life, each atom of our frames
A living soul-I vow'd to die for her:
With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it:
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
0! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

SANDOVAL, (with a sarcastic smile.)
No other than as eastern sages paint,
The god, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking,
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,
Relapses into bliss.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wood and whispered thee to rise.
Gayly from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted high-
Soon on this unshelter'd walk

Flung to fade, to rot, and die.

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT

THE THEATRE.

EARL HENRY.

MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

Sittest behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,

Leafless 'mid the blooms of May !

Ah! was that bliss
Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man?
For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
Rid Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on

them.
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice,
()! what if all betray me? what is thou?
I swore, and with an inward thoughi that seern'd
The purpose and the substance of my being,
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,

Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,

Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of tue youth,

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;
But no sound like simple truth,

But no true love in his eye'.

Loathing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, maiden, hie thee hence!
Seek thy weeping mother's cot,

With a wiser innocence.

The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
Or moan of ocean gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is wo:
With a musing melancholy

THE KEEPSAKE.
Inly arm’d, go, maiden! go.

The tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil,
Mother sage of self-dominion,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Firm thy steps, O melancholy !

Show summer gone, ere come. The fox-glove tall
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Is the memory of past folly.

Or when it bends beneath th' up-springing lark,

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
While she moults the firstling plumes,

(In vain the darling of successful love)

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
Or the bean-field's odorous blooms;

Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
Scon with renovated wing

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
Shall she dare a loftier flight,

That blue and bright-eyed Roweret of the brook,
Upward to the day-star spring,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not !*
And embathe in heavenly light.

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate iingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

loved,) LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. Nor cold nor stern my soul! yet I detest

In the cool morning twilight, carly waked
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast, Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
In intricacies of laborious song.

Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
These feel not music's genuine power, nor deign Over their dim, fast-moving shadows hung,
To melt at nature's passion-warbled plaint;

Making a quiet image of disquiet
But wen the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain in the smooth, scarcely-moving river-pool.
Bursts in a squall--they gape for wonderment.

There, in that bower where fist she own'd her love,

And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy Hark the deep buzz of vanity and hate!

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd Scornsul, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

Between the moss-rose and forget-me-notWhile the pert captain, or the primmer priest,

ller own dear name, with her own auburn hair! Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

That forced to wander till sweet spring return, O give me, from this heartless scene released,

I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, To hear our old musician, blind and gray,

Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd,)

Has inade me wish to steal away and weep,) His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play

Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kiss By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

With which she promised, that when spring reThe while I dance amid the tedded hay

turn'd, With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.

She would resign one-half of that dear name,

Aud own thenceforth no other name but mine!
Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder trees,
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,

TO A LADY.
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

WITH FALCONER' “ SHIPWRECK."
Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,

Au! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, That his own check is wet with quiet tears.

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,

Nor while half-listening, ʼmid delicious dreams,
And the gust pelting on the outhouse shed

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ;
Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of wo,

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,

of the Myosotis Sformoides Palustris, a flower from six

to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!

eye. It has the same name over the whole empire of Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures

Germany, (Bergissmein nicht,) and, we believe, in Den. Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

In the winter they're silent-the wind is so strong, On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;

What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'),

song. Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny, warm

weather, Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And singing, and loving-all come back together. And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, hark !

The green fields below him, the blue sky above, Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings be

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark ! “I love my love, and my love loves me!"

Of gratitude ! remembrances of friend,

Or absent or no more! Shades of the past, Which love makes substance! Hence to thee I

send, O dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and head,
Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to

thee:
And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
The little birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing,
Will better welcome you than I

With their sweet influencing.
Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:

You made us grow devouter !
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say

How can we do without her?
Besides, what vex'd us worst, we knew,
They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going ;
This world has angels all too few,

And heaven is overflowing!

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week
Through city crowds must push his way,

THE VISIONARY HOPE.
To stroll along through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day;

Sad lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling

He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healSincere, affectionate, and gay,

ing, One's own dear children feasting round,

That bis sick body might have ease and rest; To celebrate one's marriage-day.

He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest

Against his will the stifling load revealing, But what is all, to his delight,

'Though nature forced; though like some captive Who having long been doom'd to roam,

guest, Throws off the bundle from his back

Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Before the door of his own home?

An alien's restless mood but half-concealing,

The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd, Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

Sickness within and miserable feeling : This feel I hourly more and more:

Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, There's healing only in thy wings,

And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain, Thou breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams,
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,

One deep full wish to be no more in pain.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.

That hope, which was his inward bliss and boast

Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the Though changed in nature, wander where he dove,

wouldThe linnet and thrush, say, “ I love and I love !" For love's despair is but hope's pining ghost'