O give me the nectar !

O fill me the bowl!
Give him the nectar!
Pour out for the poet,

Hebe! pour free!
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us gods may conceit him to be!
Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry!

The wine of the Immortals

Forbids me to die!



EAR the lone pile with ivy overspread,

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,
Where “sleeps the moonlight” on yon verdant bed :

O humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain !

And there his spirit most delights to rove: Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain,

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,

And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossomed : till the faithless pride

Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue !

Where'er with wildered step she wandered pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.


With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,
Amid the


of affluence she pined ; Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms

Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:

Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, May hold it in remembrance; and be taught

That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.


A SWORDED man whose trade is blood,

In grief, in anger, and in fear,
Through jungle, swamp, and torrent flood,

I seek the wealth you hold so dear!

The dazzling charm of outward form,

The power of gold, the pride of birth,
Have taken Woman's heart by storm-

Usurp'd the place of inward worth.

Is not true Love of higher price

Than outward Form, though fair to see,
Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice,

Or echo of proud ancestry ?

O! Asra, Asra! could'st thou see

Into the bottom of my heart,
There's such a mine of Love for thee,

As almost might supply desert!

(This separation is, alas !

Too great a punishment to bear;

0! take my life, or let me pass

That life, that happy life with her !)

The perils, erst with steadfast eye

Encounter’d, now I shrink to see-
Oh! I have heart enough to die,

Not half enough to part from Thee !*



To know, to esteem, to love—and then to part, Makes

up life's tale to many a feeling heart! O for some dear abiding-place of Love, O’er which my spirit, like the mother dove, Might brood with warming wings! O fair as kind, Were but one sisterhood with you combined, (Your very image they in shape and mind) Far rather would I sit in solitude, The forms of memory all my mental food, And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine !) And only dream of you (ah, dream and pine !) Than have the presence, and partake the pride, And shine in the eye of all the world beside !




HE too has flitted from his secret nest,

Hope's last and dearest child without a name! Has fitted from me, like the warmthless flame, That makes false promise of a place of rest

* See Note at the end of the Volume.

To the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind;
Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court,
Who having won all guerdons in his sport,
Glides out of view, and whither none can find!


"Yes! He hath flitted from me—with what aim,
Or why, I know not ! 'Twas a home of bliss,
And he was innocent, as the pretty shame
Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss,
From its twy-clustered hiding-place of snow!
Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow
As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast :
Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge :
Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss,
That well might glance aside, yet never miss,
Where the sweet mark embossed so sweet a targe-
Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest


Like a loose blossom on a gusty night
He flitted from me—and has left behind
(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight)
Of either sex and answerable mind
Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame :
The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight)
And Kindness is the gentler sister's name.
Dim likeness now, tho’ fair she be and good
Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook ;
But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood,
And while her face reflected every look,
And in reflection kindled-she became
So like him, that almost she seemed the same!


Ah! He is gone, and yet will not depart !
Is with me still, yet I from Him exiled !
For still there lives within my secret heart
The magic image of the magic Child,
Which there he made up-grow by his strong art,
As in that crystal* orb—wise Merlin's feat,-
The wondrous World of Glass," wherein inisled
All longed for things their beings did repeat ;-
And there He left it, like a Sylph beguiled,
To live and yearn and languish incomplete !


Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal ?
Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise ?
Yes! one more sharp there is that deeper lies,
Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal.
Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise,
But sad compassion and atoning zeal !
One pang more blighting-keen than hope betrayed !
And this it is my woful hap to feel,
When at her Brother's hest, the twin-born Maid
With face averted and unsteady eyes,
Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on;
And inly shrinking from her own disguise
Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone.
O worse than all! O



above Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love!

* Faerie Queen, B. 111, c. 2. 8. 19.

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