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Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that
smiles in its slumber; Even for him it exists! It moves and stirs in its
prison ! Lives with a separate life: and—“ Is it a spirit!"
he murmurs : “Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only
a language !"
MAHOMET. UTTER the song, O my soul! the flight and
return of Mohammed, Prophet and priest, who scattered abroad both evil
and blessing, Huge wasteful empires founded and hallowed slow
persecution, Soul-withering, but crushed the blasphemous rites
of the Pagan And idolatrous Christians. For veiling the Gospel
of Jesus, They, the best corrupting, had made it worse than
the vilest. Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiast warrior
of Mecca, Choosing good from iniquity rather than evil from
goodness. Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding the fane
of the idol ; Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid—the
people with mad shouts Thundering now, and now with saddest ululation Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the ruinous
Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy uproar be
wildered, Rushes dividuous all-all rushing impetuous on
CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES. * HEAR, my beloved, an old Milesian story !
High and embosomed in congregated laurels, Glimmered a temple upon a breezy headland; In the dim distance amid the skiey billows Rose a fair island; the god of flocks had placed it. From the far shores of the bleak resounding island Oft by the moonlight a little boat came foating, Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes Up to the groves of the high embosomed temple. There in a thicket of dedicated roses, Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision, Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat, And with invisible pilotage to guide it Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom.
DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE.
THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE.
UNCHANGED within to see all changed without
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. Yet why at others' wanings shouldst thou fret? Then only might'st thou feel a just regret,
See note at the end of the volume.
Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light
PHANTOM OR FACT?
A DIALOGUE IN VERSE.
A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, A tender love so pure from earthly leaven That I unnethe the fancy might control, 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! But ah!—the change-It had not stirred, and yet, Alas! that change how fain would I forget! That shrinking back, like one that had mistook! That weary, wandering, disavowing look! 'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame, And still, methought, I knew, it was the same!
This riddling tale, to what does it belong ?
Or rather say at once, within what space
Call it a moment's work (and such it seems)
that years matured the silent strife, And 'tis a record from the dream of life.
ALL look and likeness caught from earth,
All accident of kin and birth,
WORK WITHOUT HOPE.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow,
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my
soul ? Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, And hope without an object cannot live.
YOUTH AND AGE
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
When I was young !
Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like;
Ere I was old !