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"We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus.
O my life

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit,
The flattery and the strife,

"And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms,

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die!

"And there he died: and when I heard my name

Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear

Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame.

What else was left? look here!" (With that she tore her robe apart, and half

The polish'd argent of her breast to sight

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh,

Showing the aspick's bite.)

"I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found

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She lock'd her lips: she left me where | Drew forth the poison with her balmy

I stood :

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breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labors longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike

Into that wondrous track of dreams again!

But no two dreams are like.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,

Desiring what is mingled with past years,

In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears;

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art,

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat.

MARGARET.

I.

O SWEET pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have

won

A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.

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O sweet pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

Come down, come down, and hear me speak:

Tie up the ringlets on your cheek:

The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between

Joy and woe, and whisper each.

Or only look across the lawn,

Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.

THE BLACKBIRD.

O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that cold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill! the silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry:
That made thee famous once, when young:
Plenty corrupts the melody
And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to

coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still he doth not move :
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

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His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin :
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my
friend,

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And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,
Drawn from the spirit thro' the
brain,

And a new face at the door, my friend, I will not even preach to you,
A new face at the door.

TO J. S.

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold,
And gently comes the world to those

That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made,
Or else I had not dared to flow
In these words toward you, and invade
Even with a verse your holy woe.

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."

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