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So in the caverns of the forest green,

Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen

By summer woodmen. And, when winter's roar Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war,

The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,

Hanging upon the peaked wave afar,

Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam, Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star

Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,

Whilst all the constellations of the sky

Seemed reeling through the storm; they did but seem

For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by,

And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, And far o'er southern waves immovably

Belted Orion hangs-warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm."O summer eve! with power divine, bestowing

On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm

Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness,
Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm

Of fevered brains oppressed with grief and madness
Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale !

And these soft waves murmuring a gentle sadness,

And the far sighings of yon piny dale

Made vocal by some wind, we feel not here.-
I bear alone what nothing may avail

To lighten a strange load!"-No human ear
Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan
Of Athanase a ruffling atmosphere

Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran,

Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake,
Glassy and dark. And that divine old man

Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake,
Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest:
And with a calm and measured voice he spake,

And with a soft and equal pressure pressed

That cold lean hand. "Dost thou remember yet, When the curved moon, then lingering in the west,

Paused in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year-sure thou dost not forget!

Then Plato's words of light in thee and me
Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east,
For we had just then read-thy memory

Is faithful now-the story of the feast;
And Agathon and Diotima seemed

From death and dark forgetfulness released."

'TWAS at the season when the Earth upsprings
From slumber. As a spherèd angel's child,
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,
Stands up before its mother bright and mild,
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems-

So stood before the Sun, which shone and smiled

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,

The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed green, and flowers burst forth like starry beams; The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene. How many a one, though none be near to love, Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror-or the Spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green!

How many a spirit then puts on the pinions Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,

And his own steps-and over wide dominions

Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms !-the wide world shrinks below,
When winter and despondency are past.

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'TWAS at this season that Prince Athanase

Passed the white Alps. Those eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow. Beside the ways

The waterfalls were voiceless; for their fountains
Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now,

Or, by the curdling winds-like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow-
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung,
And filled with frozen light the chasm below.

THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all
We can desire, O Love! and happy souls,
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls
Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew.

Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls

Investeth it; and, when the heavens are blue,
Thou fillest them; and, when the earth is fair
The shadows of thy moving wings imbue

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear
Beauty like some bright robe.

Among the towers of men;

Thou ever soarest and as soft air

In Spring, which moves the unawakened forest,
Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak,
Thou floatest among men, and aye implorest

That which from thee they should implore. The weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts

The strong have broken :-yet where shall any seek

A garment, whom thou clothest not?

HER hair was brown; her spherèd eyes were brown,
And in their dark and liquid moisture swam
Like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon;

Yet, when the spirit flashed beneath, there came
The light from them, as when tears of delight
Double the western planet's serene frame.

Marlow, 1817.



THE rose, that drinks the fountain dew

In the pleasant air of noon,

Grows pale and blue with altered hue

In the gaze of the nightly moon;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,
Makes it wan with her borrowed light.

Such is my heart :-roses are fair,

And that at best a withered blossom;
But thy false care did idly wear

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom,
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth.



No, Music, thou art not the God of Love;
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self,
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.




THE silver key of the fountain of tears,

Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild; Softest grave of a thousand fears,

Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child, Is laid asleep in flowers.


To thirst, and find no fill-to wail, and wander With short unsteady steps-to pause and ponderTo feel the blood run through the veins, and tingle Where busy thought and blind sensation mingleTo nurse the image of unfelt caresses,

Till dim imagination just possesses

The half-created shadow.



WEALTH and dominion fade into the mass
Of the great sea of human right and wrong,
When once from our possession they must pass;
But love, though misdirected, is among

The things which are immortal, and surpass All that frail stuff which will be or which was. 1817.


My thoughts arise and fade in solitude;

The verse that would invest them melts away Like moonlight in the heaven of spreading day. How beautiful they were! how firm they stood, Flecking the starry sky like woven pearl!





THOU wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, "Last of the Romans,"-though thy memory claim

From Brutus his own glory, and on thee

Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame; Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail Amid his cowering senate with thy name; Though thou and he were great, it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.

'Twill wrong thee not: thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel, Abjure such envious fame. Great Otho died

Like thee: he sanctified his country's steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,

In his own blood. A deed it was to wring

Tears from all men-though full of gentle pride,
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring
That will not be refused its offering.

Dark is the realm of grief: but human things
Those may not know who cannot weep for them.



O MARY dear, that you were here!
With your brown eyes bright and clear-

And your sweet voice, like a bird

Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate,

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