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I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh earth in new leaves dressed,

And the starry night,

Autumn evening, and the morn

When the golden mists are born.


I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;

I love waves and winds and storms,

Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.


I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good.

Between thee and me

What difference? But thou dost possess

The things I seek, not love them less.


I love Love, though he has wings,

And like light can flee;

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life! Oh come!

Make once more my heart thy home!




WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth?

Art thou not over-bold?

What! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
The last of the flock of the starry fold?

Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?

Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?


How! is not thy quick heart cold? What spark is alive on thy hearth? How! is not his death-knell knolled, And livest thou still, Mother Earth? Thou wert warming thy fingers old O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled— What, Mother, dost thou laugh now he is dead?


"Who has known me of old," replied Earth, "Or who has my story told?

It is thou who art over-bold."

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung, "To my bosom I fold

All my sons when their knell is knolled;

And so with living motion all are fed,

And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.


"Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth,

"I grow bolder and still more bold.

The dead fill me ten thousand fold Fuller of speed and splendour and mirth. I was cloudy and sullen and cold, Like a frozen chaos uprolled,

Till by the spirit of the mighty dead

My heart grew warm: I feed on whom I fed.


"Ay, alive and still bold," muttered Earth.


'Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled

In terror and blood and gold,

A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.

Leave the millions who follow to mould
The metal before it be cold;

And weave into his shame, which, like the dead
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled."


THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies:

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies.

What is this world's delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

Virtue how frail it is!

Friendship too rare!

Love how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day,

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou-and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

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Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts, Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame :Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts;

History is but the shadow of their shame;

Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts,
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,

Staining that heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.


IF I walk in Autumn's even

While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring's soft heaven,—
Something is not there which was.
Winter's wondrous frost and snow,
Summer's clouds, where are they now?


WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?

When, young and old, and strong and weak,

Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,

In thy place-ah well-a-day!—
We find the thing we fled-To-day.


"Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh,"

Said Mary, as we sate

In dusk, ere the stars were lit or candles brought.
And I, who thought

This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Asked "Who is Aziola?"

How elate

I felt to know that it was nothing human,

No mockery of myself to fear and hate!
And Mary saw my soul,

And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not;
'Tis nothing but a little downy owl."

Sad Aziola! many an eventide

Thy music I had heard

By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,

And fields and marshes wide,

Such as nor voice nor lute nor wind nor bird
The soul ever stirred;

Unlike and far sweeter than they all.

Sad Aziola! from that moment I

Loved thee and thy sad cry.



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, Autumn, and Winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief,—but with delight
No more, oh never more!


SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Art thou come and gone:

As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

The swallow summer comes again,
The owlet night resumes her reign,
But the wild swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou.

My heart to-day desires to-morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow

Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,

Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead;
Pansies let my flowers be:

On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,
Waste a hope, a fear, for me.

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