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Yet wherefore? Quench within their

burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart

keep, Like his, a mute and uncomplaining

sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise

and fair Descend: - oh, dream not that the

amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air ; eath feeds on his mute voice, and

laughs at our despair. Most musical of mourners, weep

again! Lament anew,

Urania ! - He died, Who was the sire of an immortal

strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his coun

try's pride The priest, the slave, and the liber

ticide, Trampled and mocked with many a

loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear

Sprite Yei reigns o'er earth; the third among

the sons of light.

The nursling of thy widowhood, who

grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maid

en cherished, And fed with true love tears instead

of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep

anew! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and

the last, The bloom, whose petals nipt before

they blew, Died on the promise of the fruit, is

waste; The broken lily lies — the storm is over

past.

A LAMENT.

O WORLD! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood

before; When will return the glory of your

prime? No more

oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and win.

ter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but

with delight
No more -oh, never more!

Most musical of mourners, weep

anew! Not all to that bright station dared to

climb : And happier they their happiness

who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that

night of time In which suns perished; others more

sublime, Struck by the envious wrath of man

or God, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent

prime; And some yet live, treading the

thorny road Which leads, through toil and hate, to

Fame's serene abode.

ANARCHY SLAIN BY TRUE

LIBERTY. [The Masque of Anarchy.) Last came Anarchy; he rode On a white horse splashed with blood; He was pale even to the lips, Like death in the Apocalypse.

But now tny youngest, dearest one,

has perished,

And he wore a kingly crown;
In his hand a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw
“I am God, and King, and Law!”

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It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle mo

tion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the genii that

move

That they knew the presence there, And looked -- and all was empty air. As flowers beneath May's footsteps

waken, As stars from night's loose hair are

shaken, As waves arise when loud winds call, Thoughts sprung where'er that step did

fall.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked — and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien :

In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the

hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or

stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's

blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death, tameless as wind,
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.

THE CLOUD. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting

flowers, From the sea and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when

laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews

that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's

breast As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor

eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and

swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the

lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy

nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the

blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bow

ers, Lightning my pilot sits, In a cavern under is fettered the thun

der,

That orbed maiden with white fire

laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like

floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen

feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's

thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind

built tent,

Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated

art.

Higher still and higher,

From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring

ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just

begun.

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me

on high, Are each paved with the moon and

these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning

zone, And the moon's with a girdle of

pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars

reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner un

furl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like

shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I

march With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained

to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colors

wove, While the moist earth was laughing

below. I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean

and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a

stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their

convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a

ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven

In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy

shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is

there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and

heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of

melody

TO A SKYLARK. Hail to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it,

Like a poet hidden,

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it

heeded not:

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