'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off --and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,
Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground
Of thought and of austerity within.

TO MARGUERITE.

Yes! in the sea of life enisled,

With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,

We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;

And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour-

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;

For surely once, they feel, we were

Parts of a single continent!

Now round us spreads the watery plain-
Oh might our marges meet again!

Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire?-
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

THE STRAYED REVELLER.

THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE, EVENING.

A Youth. Circe.

The Youth.

Faster, faster,

O Circe, Goddess,

Let the wild, thronging train,

The bright procession

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me! thy right arm,

Lean'd up against the column there,

Props thy soft cheek;

Thy left holds, hanging loosely,

The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,

I held but now.

Is it, then, evening

So soon? I see the night-dews,
Cluster'd in thick beads, dim
The agate brooch-stones

On thy white shoulder;
The cool night-wind, too,
Blows through the portico,
Stirs thy hair, Goddess,
Waves thy white robe !

Circe.

Whence art thou, sleeper?

The Youth.

When the white dawn first
Through the rough fir-planks
Of my hut, by the chestnuts,

Up at the valley-head,
Came breaking, Goddess!

I sprang up, I threw round me
My dappled fawn-skin;

Passing out, from the wet turf,
Where they lay, by the hut door,

I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff,
All drench'd in dew-

Came swift down to join

The rout early gather'd

In the town, round the temple,

Iacchus' white fane

On yonder hill.

Quick I pass'd, following

The wood-cutters' cart-track
Down the dark valley ;-I saw
On my left, through the beeches,
Thy palace, Goddess,

Smokeless, empty!

Trembling, I enter'd; beheld

The court all silent,

The lions sleeping,

On the altar this bowl.

I drank, Goddess!

And sank down here, sleeping,

On the steps of thy portico.

Circe.

Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?

Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,

Through the delicate, flush'd marble,

The red, creaming liquor,

Strown with dark seeds!

Drink, then! I chide thee not,

Deny thee not my bowl.

Come, stretch forth thy hand, then-so! Drink-drink again!

Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus' darling-

Or some youth beloved of Pan,
Of Pan and the Nymphs?

That he sits, bending downward

His white, delicate neck

To the ivy-wreathed marge

Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavcs That crown his hair,

Falling forward, mingling

With the dark ivy-plants

His fawn-skin, half untied,

Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he,

That he sits, overweigh'd

By fumes of wine and sleep,

So late, in thy portico?

What youth, Goddess,-what guest

Of Gods or mortals?

Circe.

Hist! he wakes!

I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!

The Youth.

Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth
To thy side, Goddess, from within?
How shall I name him?

This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?

Ah, and I see too

His sailor's bonnet,

His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,

With one arm bare!

Art thou not he, whom fame

This long time rumours

The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? Art thou he, stranger?

And thou, too, sleeper?

Thy voice is sweet.

It may be thou hast follow'd

Through the islands some divine bard,

By age taught many things,

Age and the Muses;

And heard him delighting

The chiefs and people

In the banquet, and learn'd his songs,

Of Gods and Heroes,

Of war and arts,

And peopled cities,

Inland, or built

By the grey sea. If so, then hail!

I honour and welcome thee.