O'er ocean mirrors rounded large,

And reach the glow of southern skies,

And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,
And saying, “ Comes he thus, my friend ?

Is this the end of all my care ? "

And circle moaning in the air : • Is this the end ? Is this the end ?”

And forward dart again, and play

About the prow, and back return

To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away.

TEARS of the widower, when he sees

A late-lost form that sleep reveals,

And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these,
Which weep a loss forover new,

A void where heart on heart reposed;
And, where warm hands have pressed and

Silence, till I be silent too.

Which weep the comrade of my choice,

An awful thought, a life removed,

The human-hearted man I loved,
A spirit, not a breathing voice.
Come, Time, and teach me many years

I do not suffer in a dream;

For now so strange do these things seem Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;

My fancies time to rise on wing,

And glance about the approaching sails,

As though they brought but merchants' bales, And not the burthen that they bring.


'F one should bring me this report,

That thou hadst touched the land to-day,

And I went down unto the quay, And found thee lying in the port;

And standing, muffled round with woe,

Should see thy passengers in rank

Come stepping lightly down the plank,
And beckoning unto those they know;
And if along with these should come

The man I held as half divine;

Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;
And I should tell him all my pain,

And how my life had drcoped of late,

And he should sorrow o'er my state, And marvel what possessed my brain; And I perceive no touch of change,

No hint of death in all his frame,

But found him all in all the same, I should not feel it to be strange.


TO-NIGHT the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day;

The last red leaf is whirled away, The rooks are blown about the skies;

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The forest cracked, the waters curled,

The cattle huddled on the lea;

And wildly dashed on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world; And but for fancies, which aver

That all thy motions gently pass

Athwart a plane of molten glass,
I scarce could brock the strain and stir
That makes the barren branches loud;

And but for fear it is not so,

The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher,

And onward drags a laboring breast,

And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

XVI. WHAT words are these have fallen from me

Can calm despair and wild unrest

Be tenants of a single breast, Or

r sorrow such a changeling be? Or doth she only seem to take

The touch of change in calm or storm;

But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake That holds the shadow of a lark

Hung in the shadow of a heaven?

Or has the shock, so harshly given, Confused me like the unhappy bark That strikes by night a craggy shelf,

And staggers blindly ere she sink ?

And stunned me from my power to think, And all my knowledge of myself;



And made me that delirious man

Whose fancy fuses old and new,

And flashes into false and true, And mingles all without a plan?


Thou comest, much wept for; such a breeze

Compelled thy canvas, and my prayer

Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas.

For I in spirit saw thee move

Through circles of the bounding sky;

Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all Í love. Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam,

My blessing, like a line of light,

Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home,


So may whatever tempest mars

Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark;

And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars.

So kind an office hath been done,

Such precious relice brought by thee;

The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widowed race be ran.


"Tis well, 'tis something, we may stand

Where he in English earth is laid,

And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land.

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"Tis little; but it looks in truth

As if the quiet bones were blest

Among familiar names to rest,
And in the places of his youth.
Come, then, pure hands, and bear the head

That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep;

And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.

Ah! yet, even yet, if this might be,

I, falling on his faithful heart,

Would, breathing through his lips, impart
The life that almost dies in me:
That dies not, but endures with pain,

And slowly forms the firmer mind,

Treasuring the look it cannot find,
The words that are not heard again.


THE Danube to the Severn gave

The darkened heart that beat no more ;

They laid him by the pleasant shore,
And in the hearing of the wave.
There twice a day the Severn fills,

The salt sea-water passes by,

And bushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills.


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The Wye is hushed nor moved along;

And hushed my deepest grief of all,

When, filled with tears that cannot fall,
I brim with sorrow drowning song.
The tide flows down, the wave again

Is vocal in its wooded walls :

My deeper anguish also falls,
And I can speak a little then.

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