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FORBIDDEN LOVE.

I LOVE thee! Oh, the strife, the pain,
The fiery thoughts that through me roll!
I love thee! Look-again, again!

O Stars! that thou couldst read my soul: I would thy bright bright eye could pierce The crimson folds that hide my heart; Then wouldst thou find the serpent fierce, That stings me—and will not depart !

Look love upon me, with thine eyes!

Yet, no men's evil tongues are nigh: Look pity, then, and with thy sighs

Waste music on me-till I die!

Yet, love not! sigh not! Turn (thou must) Thy beauty from me, sweet and kind; 'Tis fit that I should burn to dust

To death: because-I am not blind!

I love thee-and I live! The Moon
Who sees me from her calm above,
The Wind who weaves her dim soft tune
About me, know how much I love!
Naught else, save Night and the lonely Hour,
E'er heard my passion wild and strong:
Even thou yet deemst not of thy power,
Unless-thou readst aright my song!

A BRIDAL DIRGE.

WEAVE no more the marriage chain!
All unmated is the lover;
Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on love in vain

Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage bell!

No more need of bridal favor! Where is she to wear them well? You beside the lover tell!

Gone-with all the love he gave her! Paler than the stone she lies:

Colder than the winter's morning! Wherefore did she thus despise She with pity in her eyes) Mother's care, and lover's warning? Youth and beauty-shall they not Last beyond a brief to-morrow? No a prayer, and then forgot! This the truest lover's lot;

This the sum of human sorrow!

THE RHINE.

WE'VE sailed through banks of green,
Where the wild waves fret and quiver,
And we've down the Danube been,

The dark deep thundering river!
We've thridded the Elbe and Rhone,
The Tyber and blood-died Seine,
And have watched where the blue Garonne
Goes laughing to meet the main;

But what is so lovely, what is so grand,
As the river that runs through Rhine-land?

On the Rhine-river were we born,

Midst its flowers and famous wines,
And we know that ur country's morn,
With a treble-sweet aspect shines.
Let other lands boast their flowers,
Let other men dream wild dreams;
Let them hope they've a land like ours,
And a stream, like our stream of streams;
Yet, what is half so bright or so grand,
As the river that runs through Rhine-land?
Are we smit by the blinding sun,

That fell on our tender youth?
Do we coward-like shrink and shun
The thought-telling touch of truth?
On our heads be the sin, then, set!
We'll bear all the shame divine;
But we'll never disown the debt,
That we owe to our noble Rhine!

O, the Rhine! the Rhine! the broad and the grand
Is the river that runs through Rhine-land!

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THE CONVICT'S FAREWELL.

A BOAT is rowed along the sea,
Full of souls as it may be;

Their dress is coarse, their hair is shorn,
And every squalid face forlorn

Is full of sorrow, and hate, and scorn!
What is't?-It is the Convict Boat,
That o'er the waves is forced to float,
Bearing its wicked burden o'er
The ocean, to a distant shore:
Man scowls upon it; but the sea
(The same with fettered as with free)
Danceth beneath it heedlessly!

Slowly the boat is borne along;
Yet they who row are hard and strong,
And well their oars keep time,
Toone who sings (and clanks his chain,
'The better thus to hide his pain)

A bitter, banished rhyme!
He sings and all his mates in wo
Chant sullen chorus as they go!

SONG.

Row us on, a felon band,

Farther out to sea,

Till we lose all sight of land,

And then-we shall be free!

Row us on, and loose our fetters;
Yeo! the boat makes way:

Let's say "Good-by" unto our betters.
And, hey for a brighter day!

CHORUS.

Row us fast! Row us fast!
Trial's o'er and sentence past:

Here's a whistle for those who tried to blind us,
And a curse on all we leave behind us!

Farewell, juries, jailers, friends,
(Traitors to the close!)
Here the felon's danger ends.
Farewell, bloody foes!

Farewell, England! We are quitting
Now thy dungeon doors:
Take our blessing, as we're flitting-
"A curse upon thy shores !"

Farewell, England-honest nurse
Of all our wants and sins!
What to thee's the felon's curse?
What to thee who wins?
Murder thriveth in thy cities,
Famine through thine isle :
One may cause a dozen ditties,
But t'other scarce a smile.

Farewell, England-tender soil,

Where babes who leave the breast, From morning into midnight toil,

That pride may be proudly drest!

Where he who's right and he who swerveth
Meet at the goal the same;

Where no one hath what he deserveth,
Not even in empty fame!

So, fare thee well, our country dear!
Our last wish, ere we go,

Is-May your heart be never clear
From tax, nor tithe, nor wo!
May they who sow e'er reap for others,
The hundred for the one!

May friends grow false, and twin-born brothers
Each hate his Mother's son !

May pains and forms still fence the place
Where justice must be bought!

So he who's poor must hide his face,
And he who thinks--his thought!

May Might o'er Right be crowned the winner,
The head still o'er the heart,

And the Saint be still so like the Sinner,
You'll not know them apart!

May your traders grumble when bread is high,
And your farmers when bread is low,
And your pauper brats, scarce two feet high,
Learn more than your nobles know!
May your sick have foggy or frosty weather,
And your convicts all short throats,

And your blood-covered bankers e'er hang together,
And tempt ye with one-pound notes!

And so with hunger in your jaws,
And peril within your breast,
And a bar of gold, to guard your laws,
For those who pay the best;
Farewell to England's wo and weal!

...

For our betters, so bold and blythe, May they never want, when they want a meal A Parson to take their Tiihe!

THE SECRET OF SINGING.

LADY, sing no more!

Science all is vain,

Till the heart be touched, lady,

And give forth its pain.

'Tis a hidden lyre,

Cherished near the sun;

O'er whose witching wire, lady,

Faery fingers run.

Pity comes in tears,

From her home above;

Hope, and sometimes Fears, lady,
And the wizard-Love!
Each doth search the heart,

To its inmost springs;
And when they depart, lady,
Then the Spirit sings!

THE HIRLAS HORN.

FILL high, fill high the Hirlas porn,
Rimmed, with sunlight, like the morn!
Deep, and vast, and fit to drown
All the troubles of a crown;

Deep, and vast, and crowned with mead,
'Tis a cup for kings indeed,
Full of courage, full of worth,
Making man a god on earth!

Warriors, Heroes, Cambrian-born,
Drink-from the Hirlas horn!

Hide with foam the golden tip;
Make it rich for a prince's lip!
Here's to the fame of Roderick dead!
Bards! why do your harps not shed
Music? Come a mighty draft

To dead Roderick's name be quaffed!
Tell us all the hero won,

All he did, from sun to sun!

Bards, and Heroes, Cambrian-born,
Drink-from the Hirlas horn!

Fill the horn to Madoc's name,
First in the mighty race of fame,
Eagle-hearted, eagle-eyed,

All hearts shuddered when he died!
Yet, why so? for Tudor rose
Like a lion upon our foes;-
Like the wild storm-smitten ocean,
When he puts his strength in motion!
Come, brave Spirits, Cambrian-born,
Drink-from the Hirlas horn!
Cambrian people-Cambrian mountains,"
Back into your wizard fountains
(Where the Druid seers are dwelling)
Shout unto the crowned Llewellin !
Patriot! Hero! Monarch! Friend!
Wreathed with virtues without end!
First of men 'tween Earth and Sky!
The sword and the shield of Liberty!

Drink, all Spirits, Cambrian jorn,
Drink to the good, great crowned Llewellin
Drink-from the Hirlas horn!

AN EPISTLE TO CHARLES LAMB,

ON HIS EMANCIPATION FROM CLERKSHIP.
(WRITTEN OVER A FLASK OF SHERRIS.)
DEAR LAMB, I drink to thee-to thee
Marric to sweet Liberty !

What! old friend, and art thou freed
From the bondage of the pen ?
Free from care and toil, indeed?
Free to wander among men
When and howsoe'er thou wilt?

All thy drops of labor spilt

On those huge and figured pages,
Which will sleep unclasped for ages,
Little knowing who did wield

The quill that traversed their white field?

Come-another mighty health!
Thou hast earn'd thy sum of wealth-
Countless ease-immortal leisure-
Days and nights of boundless pleasure,
Checker'd by no dream of pain,
Such as hangs on clerk-like brain
Like a nightmare, and doth press
The happy soul from happiness.
Oh! happy thou-whose all of time
(Day and eve, and morning prime)
Is fill'd with talk on pleasant themes-
Or visions quaint, which come in dreams
Such as panther'd Bacchus rules,
When his rod is on "the schools,"
Mixing wisdom with their wine-
Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine
Strayeth in some elder book
Whereon our modern Solons look,
With severe ungifted eyes,

Wondering what thou seest to prize.

Happy thou, whose skill can take

Pleasure at each turn, and slake
Thy thirst by every fountain's brink,
Where less wise men would pause to shrink
Sometimes 'mid stately avenues
With Cowley thou, or Marvel's muse,
Dost walk; or Gray, by Eton towers;
Or Pope, in Hampton's chestnut bowers;
Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream;
Or dost thou with our Milton dream
Of Eden and the Apocalypse,

And hear the words from his great lips?

Speak-in what grove or hazel shade,
For "musing meditation made,"
Dost wander?-or on Penshurst lawn,
Where Sidney's fame had time to dawn
And die, ere yet the hate of Men
Could envy at his perfect pen?
Or, dost thou, in some London street
(With voices fill'd and thronging feet)
Loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay-
Or take, along some pathway sweet,
Thy calm suburban way?

Happy beyond that man of Ross,

Whom mere content could ne'er engross,

Art thou with hope, health, "learned leisure,"
Friends, books, thy thoughts-an endless pleasure!
-Yet-yet-(for when was pleasure made
Sunshine all without a shade ?)
Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest
Through the busy scenes thou lovest,

With an Idler's careless look,

Turning some moth-pierced book,

Feel'st a sharp and sudden wo

For visions vanished long ago!

And then, thou think'st how time has fled

Over thy unsilvered head,
Snatching many a fellow mind

Away, and leaving-what ?-behind!
Naught, alas! save joy and pain

Mingled ever, like a strain

Of music where the discords vie

With the truer harmony.

So, perhaps, with thee the vein
Is sullied ever-so the chain
Of habits and affections old,
Like a weight of solid gold,
Presseth on thy gentle breast,
Till sorrow rob thee of thy rest.

Aye: so't must be! E'en I (whose lot
The fairy Love so long forgot),
Seated beside this Sherris wine,
And near to books and shapes divine,
Which poets and the painters past

Have wrought in lines that aye shall last-
E'en I, with Shakspere's self beside me,
And one whose tender talk can guide me
Through fears, and pains, and troublous themes,
Whose smile doth fall upon my dreams

Like sunshine on a stormy sea

Want something-when I think of thee!

THE FALCON.

(AFTER A PAINTING BY TITIAN

THE Falcon is a noble bir

And when his heart of hearts is stirred,
He'll seek the eagle, though he run
Into his chamber near the sun.
Never was there brute or bird,

Whom the woods or mountains heard,

That could force a fear or care
From him-the Arab of the air!

To-day he sits upon a wrist,

Whose purple veins a queen has kissed,

And on him falls a sterner eye
Than he can face where'er he fly,
Though he scale the summit cold
Of the Grimsel, vast and old-

Though he search yon sunless stream,
That thrids the forest like a dream.

Ah, noble Soldier! noble Bird!
Will your names be ever heard-
Ever seen in future story,
Crowning it with deathless glory?
-Peace, ho!-the master's eye is drawa
Away unto the bursting dawn!
Arise, thou bird of birds, arise,
And seek thy quarry in the skies!

BUILD UP A COLUMN TO BOLIVAR!

BUILD up a column to Bolivar!
Build it under a tropic star!
Build it high as his mounting fame!
Crown its head with his noble name!
Let the letters tell, like a light afar,
"This is the column of Bolivar!”
Soldier in war, in peace a man,
Did he not all that a hero can?
Wasting his life for his country's care,
Laying it down with a patriot prayer,
Shedding his blood like the summer rain,
Loving the land, though he loved in vain

Man is a creature, good or ill,
Little or great, at his own strong will;
And he grew good, and wise, and great,
Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate,
And showered his golden gifts on men,
Who paid him in basest wrongs again!

Raise the column to Bolivar!
Firm in peace, and fierce in war!
Shout forth his noble, noble name!
Shout till his enemies die. in shame!
Shout till Columbia's woods awaken,
Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken→
Till pity, and praise, and great disdain,
Sound like an Indian hurricane!
Shout, as ye shout in conquering war,
While ye build the column to Bolivar!

THE FIRE-FLY. TELL us, O Guide! by what strange natural laws This winged flower throws out, night after night, Such lunar brightness? Why? for what grave cause Is this earth-insect crown'd with heavenly light? Peace! Rest content! See where, by cliff and dell, Past tangled forest paths and silent river, The little lustrous creature guides us well, And where we fail, his small light aids us ever. Night's shining servant! Pretty star of earth! I ask not why thy lamp doth ever burn. Perhaps it is thy very life-thy mind;

And thou, if robbed of that strange right of birth, Might be no more than Man-when Death doth turn His beauty into darkness, cold and blind!

TO THE SINGER PASTA.

NEVER till now-never till now, O Queen
And Wonder of the enchanted world of sound?
Never till now was such bright creature seen,

Startling to transport all the regions round!

Whence com'st thou-with those eyes and that fine mien,
Thou sweet, sweet singer? Like an angel found
Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled)
A star 'mong clouds-a spirit 'mid the dead.

Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings
Perpetual sweetness near-divine despair!
Thou speak'st-and Music, with her thousand strings,
Gives golden answers from the haunted air!
Thou movist-and round thee Grace her beauty flings!
Thou look'st-and Love is born! O songstress rare!
Lives there on earth a power like that which lies
In those resistless tones-in those dark eyes?

Oh, I have lived-how long!-with one deep treasure,
One fountain of delight unlocked, unknown;
But thou, the prophetess of my new pleasure,

Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone;
And now outgushes, without stint or measure,
The endless rapture-and in places lone
I shout it to the stars and winds that flee,
And then I think on all I owe to thee!

I see thee at all hours-beneath all skies

In every shape thou tak'st, or passionate path: Now art thou like some winged thing that cries Over a city flaming fast to death;

Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies:

Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath :-
All things thou art by turns-from wrath to love;
From the queen eagle to the vestal dove!
Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmasked
In slow pale silence, or 'mid brief eclipse);
But what are they to thy sweet strength, when tasked
To its height-with all the God upon thy lips?
Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked

By one who in the book of darkness dips,
Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit
Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit.
Would I could crown thee as a king can crown!
Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame,
Whose echoes shall all vulgar triumphs drown-
Whose light shall darken every meaner name?
The gallant courts thee for his own renown;

Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game:
The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse;
And I-alas!-I can but bring my verse!

COME LET US TO THE LAND. COME-let us go to the land

Where the violets grow!

Let's go thither, hand in hand,

Over the waters, over the snow,

To the land where the sweet sweet violets blow!

There in the beautiful South,

Where the sweet flowers lie,

Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth,
Under the light of the evening sky,

That Love never fades, though violets die!

FULLER'S BIRD.

"I have read of a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man; who coming to the water to drink, and finding there by reflection that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterward enjoyeth itself."-FULLER'S WORTHIES THE wild-winged creature, clad in gore,

(His bloody human meal being o'er,)
Comes down to the water's brink:
'Tis the first time he there hath gazed,
And straight he shrinks-alarmed-amazed,
And dares not drink.

"Have I till now," he sadly said,
"Preyed on my brother's blood, and made
His flesh my meal to-day ?”

Once more he glances in the brook,
And once more sees his victim's look;
Then turns away.

With such sharp pain as human hearts
May feel, the drooping thing departs
Unto the dark wild wood;

And, where the place is thick with weeds,
He hideth his remorse, and feeds

No more on blood.

And in that weedy brake he lies,
And pines, and pines, until he dies;

And, when all's o'er-

What follows? Naught! his brothers slake Their thirst in blood in that same brake,

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Look what immortal floods the sunset pours
Upon us!-Mark! how still (as though in dreams
Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems!
How silent are the winds! No billow roars :
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores!

The silver margin which aye runneth round
The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound:
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors!
What is the Giant of the ocean dead,

Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun No; he reposes! Now his toils are done, More quiet than the babbling brooks is he.

So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!

A CHAMBER SCENE.

TREAD Softly through these amorous room* ↑
For every bough is hung with life,
And kisses in harmonious strife,
Unloose their sharp and wing'd perfumes
From Afric, and the Persian looms,
The carpet's silken leaves have sprung,
And heaven, in its blue bounty, flung
These starry flowers, and azure blooms.

Tread softly! By a creature fair
The deity of love reposes,
His red lips open, like the roses
Which round his hyacinthine hair
Hang in crimson coronals;
And Passion fills the arched halls;
And Beauty floats upon the air.

Tread softly-softly, like the foct
Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow,
Who cometh white, and cold, and mute,
Lest he should wake the Spring below.
Oh, look! for here 'ie Love and Youth,
Fair Spirits of the heart and mind:
Alas! that one should stray from truth;
And one-be ever, ever blind!

THE PAST.

THIS common fie.d, this little brook-
What is there hidden in these two,
That I so often on them look,

Oftener than on the heavens blue?
No beauty lies upon the field;
Small music doth the river yield;
And yet I look and look again,
With something of a pleasant pain.

'Tis thirty-can't be thirty years,

Since last I stood upon this plank, Which o'er the brook its figure rears,

And watch'd the pebbles as they sank?
How white the stream! I still remember
Its margin glassed by hoar December,
And how the sun fell on the snow:
Ah! can it be so long ago?

It cometh back;-So blythe, so bright,
It hurries to my eager ken,
As though but one short winter's night
Had darkened o'er the world since then.
It is the same clear dazzling scene;-
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice
Doth not so plainly say-" Rejoice."

Yet Nature surely never ranges,

Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown; But, ever joyful, merely changes

The primrose for the thistle-down.
'Tis we alone who, waxing old,
Look on her with an aspect cold,
Dissolve her in our burning tears,
Or clothe her with the mists of years!

Then, why should not the grass be green ?
And why should not the river's song
Be merry-as they both have been

When I was here an urchin strong?
Ah, true-too true! I see the sun
Through thirty winter years hath run,
For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook,
Usurp the urchin's laughing look!

So be it! I have lost-and won!

For, once, the past was poor to meThe future dim; and though the sun

Shed life and strength, and I was free, I felt not-knew no grateful pleasure: All seemed but as the common measure: But Now-the experienced Spirit old Turns all the leaden past to gold!

THE PAUPER'S JUBILEE. HURRAH! Who was e'er so gay, As we merry folks to-day? Brother Beggars, do not stare, But toss your rags into the air, And cry, "No work, and better fare!" Each man, be he saint or sinner,

Shall to-day have-MEAT for Dinner!!

Yesterday, oh, Yesterday!
That indeed was a bad day;
Iron bread, and rascal gruel,
Water drink, and scanty fuel,
With the beadle at our backs,
Cursing us as we beat flax,
Just like twelve Old Bailey varlets,
Among ochre-picking harlots!

Why should we such things endure ?
Though we be the parish Poor,
This is usage bad and r.ugh.
Are not age and pain enough?
Lonely age, unpitied pain?

With the Ban that, like a chain,
fo our prison bare hath bound us,

And the unwelcomed Winter 'round us?

Why should we for ever work?
Do we starve beneath the Turk,
That, with one foot in the grave,
We should still toil like the slave ?
Seventy winters on our heads,
Yet we freeze on wooden beds!
With one blanket for a fold,
That lets in the horrid cold,
And cramps and agues manifold!

Yet-sometimes we're merry people,
When the chimes clang in the steeple:
If't be summer-time, we all
(Dropsied, palsied, crippled) crawl
Underneath the sunny wall:
Up and down like worms we creep,
Or stand still and fall asleep,
With our faces in the sun,
Forgetting all the world has done!

If't be May, with hawthorn blooms
In our breasts, we sit on tombs,
And spell o'er, with eager ken,
The epitaphs of older men,

(Choosing those, for some strange reasons,
Who've weather'd ninety-a hundred seasons,)
Till forth at last we shout in chorus,
"We've thirty good years still before us

But to-day's a bonny day!

What shall we be doing?

What's the use of saving money,

When rivers flow with milk and honey? Prudence is our ruin.

What have we to do with care?

Who, to be a pauper's heir,

Would mask his false face in a smile,

Or hide his honest hate in guile?

But come why do we loiter here ?
Boy, go get us some small beer:
Quick! 'twill make our blood run quicker,
And drown the devil Pain in liquor!
March so fierce is almost past,

April will be here at last,

And May must come,
When bees do hum,

And Summer over cold victorious!
Hurrah! 'tis a prospect glorious!
Meat! small beer! and warmer weather!
Come boys-let's be mad together!

A THOUGHT ON A RIVULET. Look at this brook, so blithe, so free! Thus hath it been, fair boy, for ever—A shining, dancing, babbling river; And thus 'twill ever be.

"Twill run, from mountain to the main,

With just the same sweet babbling voice
That now sings out, "Rejoice-rejoice!"
Perhaps 'twill be a chain

That will a thousand years remain-
Ay, through all times and changes last,
And link the present to the past.
Perhaps upon this self-same spot,
Hereafter, may a merry knot

(My children's children !) meet and play,

And think on me, some summer day;

And smile (perhaps through youth's brief tears,

While thinking back through wastes of years,) And softly say

"Twas here the old man used to stray,

And gaze upon the sky; and dream

(Long, long ago!) by this same stream.
He's in his grave! Ungentle Time
Hath dealt but harshly with his rhyme:
But We will ne'er forget, that he
Taught us to love this river free."

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