And your jewell'd gauds surrender
Half their glories to the day;
Freely did they flash their splendour,
Freely gave it—but it dies away.

In the pines the thrush is waking-
Lo, yon orient hill in flames!
Scores of true love knots are breaking
At divorce which it proclaims.

When the lamps are paled at morning,
Heart quits heart and hand quits hand.
Cold in that unlovely dawning,
Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand!

Pluck no more red roses, maidens,
Leave the lilies in their dew-

Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,
Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew!
-Shall I seek, that I may scorn her,
Her I loved at eventide ?

Shall I ask, what faded mourner

Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side?...
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens 1
Dusk the hall with yew!

THE VOICE.

As the kindling glances,

Queen-like and clear,

Which the bright moon lances

From her tranquil sphere

At the sleepless waters

Of a lonely mere,

On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,

Shiver and die.

As the tears of sorrow

Mothers have shed-
Prayers that to-morrow
Shall in vain be sped

When the flower they flow for

Lies frozen and dead

Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast, Bringing no rest.

Like bright waves that fall

With a lifelike motion

On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean;
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall-
A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall-
Strains of glad music at a funeral—

So sad, and with so wild a start
To this deep-sober'd heart,
So anxiously and painfully,

So drearily and doubtfully,

And oh, with such intolerable change

Of thought, such contrast strange,
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,
Like wanderers from the world's extremity,
Unto their ancient home!

In vain, all, all in vain,

They beat upon mine ear again,

Those melancholy tones so sweet and still.

Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
Did steal into mine ear-

Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,

Yet could not shake it;

Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,
Yet could not break it.

YOUTH'S AGITATIONS.

WHEN I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, From this poor present self which I am now; When youth has done its tedious vain expense Of passions that for ever ebb and flow;

Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind,
And breathe more happy in an even clime?—
Ah no, for then I shall begin to find.
A thousand virtues in this hated time!

Then I shall wish its agitations back,
And all its thwarting currents of desire;
Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,
And call this hurrying fever, generous fire;

And sigh that one thing only has been lent
To youth and age in common-discontent.

THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS.

So far as I conceive the world's rebuke
To him address'd who would recast her new,
Not from herself her fame of strength she took,
But from their weakness who would work her rue.

'Behold,' she cries, so many rages lull'd, So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down; Look how so many valours, long undull'd,

After short commerce with me, fear my frown!

Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry,
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!'-
The world speaks well; yet might her foe reply:
'Are wills so weak?—then let not mine wait long!

Hast thou so rare a poison?-let me be
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me l'

STAGIRIUS.3

THOU, who dost dwell alone-
Thou, who dost know thine own-
Thou, to whom all are known

From the cradle to the grave

Save, oh! save.

From the world's temptations,

From tribulations,

From that fierce anguish

Wherein we languish,

From that torpor deep

Wherein we lie asleep,

Heavy as death, cold as the grave,
Save, oh! save.

When the soul, growing clearer,

Sees God no nearer;

When the soul, mounting higher,
To God comes no nigher;
But the arch-fiend Pride

Mounts at her side,

Foiling her high emprise,

Sealing her eagle eyes,

And, when she fain would soar,
Makes idols to adore,

Changing the pure emotion
Of her high devotion,

To a skin-deep sense

Of her own eloquence;

Strong to deceive, strong to enslave-
Save, oh! save.

From the ingrain'd fashion

Of this earthly nature

That mars thy creature;

From grief that is but passion,
From mirth that is but feigning,
From tears that bring no healing,
From wild and weak complaining,
Thine old strength revealing,

Save, oh! save.

From doubt, where all is double;
Where wise men are not strong,
Where comfort turns to trouble,
Where just men suffer wrong;
Where sorrow treads on joy,
Where sweet things soonest cloy,
Where faiths are built on dust,
Where love is half mistrust,

Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sca-
Oh! set us free.

O let the false dream fly,
Where our sick souls do lie

Tossing continually!

O where thy voice doth come

Let all doubts be dumb,

Let all words be mild,
All strifes be reconciled,

All pains beguiled!