Once fed with many-voiced waves-a dream
Of youth, which night and time have quench'd for

ever,

Still, dark, and dry, and unremember'd now.

Oh for Medea's wondrous alchymy,
Which, wheresoe'er it fell, made the earth gleam
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! Oh that God,
Profuse of poisons, would conceal the chalice
Which but one living man has drain'd, who now,
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels
No proud exemption in the blighting curse
He bears, over the world wanders for ever,
Lone as incarnate death! Oh that the dream
Of dark magician in his vision'd cave,
Raking the cinders of a crucible

For life and power, even when his feeble hand
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law
Of this so lovely world! But thou art fled
Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams: ah! thou hast fled;
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,

The child of grace and genius. Heartless things
Are done and said i' the world, and many worms,
And beasts, and men live on, and mighty Earth
From sea and mountain, city and wilderness,
In vesper low or joyous orison,

Lifts still its solemn voice but thou art fled:
Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee
Been purest ministers; who are, alas!
Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips,
So sweet even in their silence; on those eyes,
That image sleep in death; upon that form,
Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear
Be shed, not even in thought. Nor, when those
Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, [hues
Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone

In the frail pauses of this simple strain,
Let not high verse, mourning the memory
Of that which is no more, or painting's wo,
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence,
And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain
To weep a loss that turns their light to shade.
It is a wo too "deep for tears" when all

Is reft at once; when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light adorn'd the world around it, leaves
Those who remain behind, nor sobs nor groans,
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;
But pale despair and cold tranquillity,

Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.

STANZAS.

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,

Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of

even:

Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,

And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of Heaven.

Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries Away!

Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's ungentle mood:

Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;

Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and

come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thy head;

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:

But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,

Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.

The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own repose,

For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep:

Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest: yet till the phantoms flee

Which that house, and heath, and garden made dear to thee erewhile,

Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free

From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

MUTABILITY.

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon

Night closes round, and they are lost for ever;

Or, like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest: a dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise: one wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;

Embrace fond wo, or cast our cares away:

It is the same! For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Naught may endure but Mutability.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me-who knows how?-
To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream;
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
Beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas
My heart beats loud and fast,
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

STANZAS.

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple moon's transparent light
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods,
The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found,

And walk'd with inward glory crown'd

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure : To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,

Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,

And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.