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A STORM.

THE Spirits of the mighty Sea,

To-night are 'wakened from their dreams,
And upward to the tempest flee,

Baring their foreheads where the gleams
Of lightning run, and thunders cry,
Rushing and raining through the sky!
The Spirits of the sea are waging

Loud war upon the peaceful Night,
And bands of the black winds are raging
Through the tempest blue and bright;
Blowing her cloudy hair to dust
With kisses, like a madman's lust!

What Ghost now, like an Até, walketh
Earth-ocean-air? and aye with Time,
Mingled, as with a lover talketh?

Methinks their colloquy sublime
Draws anger from the sky, which raves
Over the self-abandoned waves !
Behold! like millions mass'd in battle,

The trembling billows headlong go,
Lashing the barren deeps, which rattle
In mighty transport till they grow
All fruitful in their rocky home,
And burst from phrensy into foam.
And look! where on the faithless billows

Lie women, and men, and children fair;
Some hanging, like sleep, to their swollen pillows,
With helpless sinews and streaming hair,
And some who plunge in the yawning graves!
Ah! lives there no strength beyond the waves?
'Tis said, the Moon can rock the Sea

From phrensy strange, to silence mild-
To sleep-to death :-But where is She,
While now her storm-born giant child
Upheaves his shoulder to the skies?
Arise, sweet planet pale-arise!
She cometh-lovelier than the dawn

In summer, when the leaves are green-
More graceful than the alarmed fawn,
Over his grassy supper seen:
Bright quiet from her beauty falls,
Until-again the tempest calls!
The supernatural storm-he 'waketh
Again, and lo! from sheets all white,
Stands up unto the stars, and shaketh

Scorn on the jewell'd locks of Night.
He carries a ship on his foaming crown,
And a cry, like Hell, as he rushes down!

And so still soars from calm to storm,
The stature of the unresting Sea:
So doth desire or wrath deform

Our else calm humanity

Until at last we sleep,

And never 'wake nor weep, (Hush'd to death by some faint tune,) Ir our grave beneath the Moon!

THE SONG OF A FELON'S WIFE.

THE brand is on thy brow,
A dark and guilty spot;
'Tis ne'er to be erased!

'Tis ne'er to be forgot!

The brand is on thy brow!

Yet I must shade the spot:
For who will love thee now,
If I love thee not?

Thy soul is dark-is stained-
From out the bright world thrown;
By God and man disdained,

But not by me-thy own!
Oh! even the tiger slain

Hath one who ne'er doth flee,
Who sooths his dying pain
-That one am I to the

I LOVED HER WHEN SHE LOOKED FROM ME I LOVED her when she looked from me,

And hid her stifled sighs:

I loved her too when she did smile
With shy and downcast eyes,
The light within them rounding "like
The young moon in its rise."

I loved her!-Dost thou love no more,
Now she from thee is flown,

To some far distant-distant shore,
Unfetter'd, and alone?

Peace, peace! I know her: she will come
Again, and be mine own.

A kiss a sigh—a little word

We changed, when we da part;
No more: yet read I in her eyes
The promise of her heart;
And Hope (who from all others flies)
From me will ne'er depart.

So here I live--a lover lone,
Contented with my state,
More sure of love, if she return,
Than others are of hate:
And if she die?—I too can die,
Content still with my fate.

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THE VAIN REGRET.
OH! had I nursed, when I was young,
The lessons of my father's tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew,
From all he saw and others knew,)

I might have been-ah, me!
Thrice sager than I e'er shall be.
For what saith Time?
Alas! he only shows the truth
Of all that I was told in youth!

The thoughts now budding in my brain-
The wisdom I have bought with pain-
The knowledge of life's brevity-
Frail friendship-false philosophy-
And all that issues out of wo-
Methinks, were taught me long ago!
Then what says Time?
Alas! he but brings back the truth
Of all I heard (and lost!) in youth!
Truths!-hardly learned, and lately brough
From many a far forgotten scene!
Had I but listened, as I ought,

To your voices, sage-serene,
Oh! what might I not have been
In the realms of thought!

HIS LOVE IS HIDDEN. His love is hidden, like the springs

Which lie in Earth's deep heart below; And murmur there a thousand things, Which naught above may hear or know. 'Tis hid, not buried! Without sound, Or light or limit, night and day, It (like the dark springs underground) Runs, ebbs not, and ne'er can decay.

THE FIGHT OF RAVENNA.

He is bound for the wars,

He is armed for the fight, With iron-like sinews,

And the heart of a knight
All hidden in steel,

Like the sun in a cloud,
And he calls for his charger,
Who neigheth aloud;
And he calls for his page,

Who comes forth like the light
And they mount and ride off,
For the Brescian fight.
Count Gaston de Foix

Is the heir of Narbonne, But his page is an orphan, Known-link'd unto none;

The master is young,

But as bold as the blast; The servant all tenderToo tender to last:

A bud that was born

For the summer-soft skies,
But, left to wild winter,
Unfoldeth, and dies!

"Come forward, my young one,
Ride on by my side:
What, child, wilt thou quell
The Castilian pride ?"
Thus speaks the gay soldier,
His heart in his smile,
But his page blushes deep-
Was it anger?—the while.
Was it anger? Ah, no:

For the tender dark eye
Saith-"Master, for thee
I will live, I will die!"
They speed to the field,
Storm-swift in their flight,

And Breschia falleth,

Like fruit in a blight; Scarce a blow for a battle A shout for her fame: All's lost-given up

To the sound of a name!
But Ravenna hath soldiers,
Whose hearts are more bold,
Whose wine is all Spanish,
Whose pay is all gold.

So he turns, with a laugh
Of contempt for his foe,
And now girdeth his sword,
For a weightier blow.
Straight forward he rideth

'Till night's in the sky,
When the page and the master
Together must lie.
Where loiters the page?

Ha! he hangeth his head,
And, with forehead like fire,
He shunneth the bed!

"Now rest thee, my weary one Drown thee in sleep. The great sun himself

Lieth down in the deep; The beast on his pasture, The bird on his bough, The lord and the servant, Are slumberers now." "I am wont," sighed the page. "A long watching to keep; But my lord shall lie down,

While I charm him to sleep, Soon (cased in his armor) Down lieth the knight, And the page he is tuning His cittern aright:

At last through a voice
That is tender and low,
The melody mourns

Like a stream at its flowSad, gentle, uncertain,

As the life of a dream:

And thus the page singeth, With love for his theme:

SONG. I.

THERE lived a lady, long ago;

Her heart was sad and dark-ah, me!
Dark with a single secret wo,
That none could ever see!
II.

She left her home, she lost her pride,
Forgot the jeering world-ah, me!
And followed a knight, and fought, and died,
All for the love of chivalry!

III.

She died and when in her last dull sleep,
She lay all pale and cold-ah, me!
They read of a love as wild and deep
As the dark deep sea!

The song's at an end!

But the singer, so young,
Still weeps at the music

That fell from his tongue:
His hands are enclasped,
His cheeks are on fire,
And his black locks, unloosened,
Lie mixed with the wire:
But his lord-Ire reposes

As calm as the night,
Until dawn cometh forth
With her summons of light
Then-onward they ride
Under clouds of the vines
Now silent, now singing
Old stories divine;
Now resting awhile,

Near the cool of a stream;
Now wild for the battle,
Now lost in a dream:
At last-they are thridding
The forest of pines,
And Ravenna, beleaguer'd
By chivalry, shines!

Ravenna Ravenna!

Now "God for the right!"
For the Gaul and the Spaniard
Are full in the fight.
French squadrons are charging,

Some conquer, some reel;
Wild trumpets are braying
Aloud for Castile!
Each cannon that roareth

Bears blood on its sound,
And the dead and the dying

Lic thick on the ground.

Now shrieks are the music

That's borne on the gust, And the groan of the war-horse Who dies in the dust: Now Spaniards are cheered

By the "honor" they love Now France by the flower That bloometh above; And, indeed, o'er the riot,

The steam, and the cloud, Still the Oriflamme floateth-The pride of the proud! What ho! for King Louis! What ho! for Narbonne! Come, soldiers! 'tis Gaston Who leadeth ye on!

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Mourn, Soldiers-he's dead!

The last heir of Narbonne ! The bravest--the best!

But the battle is won! The Spaniards have flown

To their fosse-covered tent; And the victors are left

To rejoice and lament!
They still have proud leaders,
Still chivalry brave;

But the first of their heroes
Lies dumb in the grave!

They bear him in honor;
They laurel his head :

But, who meets the pale burthen,
And drops by the dead?
The Page? No-the WOMAN!
Who followed her love,
And who'll follow him still
(If it may be)-above;
Who'll watch him, and tend him,
On earth, or in sky;

Who was ready to live for him—
Ready to die!

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COURAGE!-Nothing can withstand Long a wronged, undaunted land; If the hearts within her be True unto themselves and thee, Thou freed giant, Liberty! Oh! no mountain-nymph art tha, When the helm is on thy brov, And the sword is in thy hard, Fighting for thy own good. land! Courage!-Nothing e'r withstood Freemen fighting for their good; Armed with all their father's fame They will win and wear a name That shall go to endless glory, Like the gods of old Greek story, Raised to heaven and heavenly wc For the good they gave i earth. Courage-There is none so poor, (None of all who wrong endure,) None so humble, none so weak, But may flush his father's cheek; And his Maidens dear and true, With the deeds that he may do. Be his days as dark as night, He may make himself a light. What! though sunken be the sun, There are stars when day is done! Courage !-Who will be a slave, That hath strength to dig a grave, And therein his fetters hide, And lay a tyrant by his side? Courage!-Hope, howe'er he fly For a time, can never die! Courage, therefore, brother men ! Cry "God! and to the fight again!'

SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. SIT down, sad soul, and count The moments flying: Come-tell the sweet amount

That's lost by sighing! How many smiles ?-a score? Then laugh, and count no more, For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,

And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream

Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same:
We love for ever;
We laugh; yet few we shame-
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies:
Then hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!

A HYMN OF EVIL SPIRITS,

THE Moon is shining on her way,
The planets, yet undimmed by sleep,
Drink light from the far-flaming day,
Who still is hid beyond the deep:
But here both men and Spirits weep,
And earth all mourneth unto air,
Because there liveth nothing fair,
Nor great, save on the azure steep.
And on that hill of Heaven, none

Of human strength or thought may climb;
For there bright Angels lie alone,

Reposing since the birth of Time.
They bask beneath HIS looks sublime;
But naught of ease or hope is here,
Where sleep is linked to dreams of fear,
And error to the pains of crime.
The moon is come-but she shall go;
The stars are in their azure nest;
The jaded wind shall cease to blow;

But when shall we have hope or rest?
Now some are sad, and some are blessed;
But what to us is smile or sigh?
Though Peace, the white-winged dove, be nigh,
It ne'er must be the Spirit's guest!

Behold! The young and glistening Hour
Comes riding through the gate of morn,
And we awhile must quit our power.
And vanish from the world we scorn.
Look! Flattering sin begins to dawn

From man's false lips and woman's eyes,
And hopes and hearts are racked and torn
In God's green earthly paradise!

THE VIOLET.

I LOVE all things the seasons bring,
All buds that start, all birds that sing,

All leaves, from white to jet;

All the sweet words that Summer sends,
When she recalls her flowery friends,
But chief-the Violet !

I love, how much I love the rose,
On whose soft lips the South-wind blows,
In pretty amorous threat;

The lily paler than the moon,
The odorous wondrous world of June,
Yet more-the Violet!

She comes-the first, the fairest thing
That Heaven upon the earth doth fling,
Ere Winter's star has set:
She dwells behind her leafy screen,
And gives, as angels give, unseen:
So, love-the Violet !

What modest thoughts the Violet teaches,
What gracious boons the Violet preaches,
Bright maiden, ne'er forget!

But learn, and love, and so depart, And sing thou, with thy wiser heart, "Long live the Violet !"

A REPROACH.

Look gently on me! Thou dost move (Yet why?) thine eyes away!

Dost dream that I could harm thee, Love,
Or thy sweet soul betray?

Know better! Some may seek their end,
Through all bad deeds that be:
But I-beyond the world thy friend-
Can never injure thee!

My love, my wo, I not deny;

And I can not from them flee: But-if thou biddest-I can die

Far-far away from thee!

BEAUTY.

PAINTERS-Poets—who can tell
What Beauty is--bright miracle?
Sometimes brown and sometimes white,
She shifts from darkness into light,
Swimming on with such fine ease,
That we miss her small degrees,
Knowing not that she hath ranged,
Till we find her sweetly changed.
They are poets false who say
That Beauty must be fair as day,
And that the rich red rose

On her cheek for ever glows,
Or that the cold white lily lieth
On her breast, and never flieth.
Beauty is not so unkind,
Not so niggard, not so blind,
As yield her favor but to one,
When she may walk unconfined,
Associate with the unfettered Wind
And wander with the sun.

No; she spreads her gifts, her grace,
O'er every color, every face.
She can laugh, and she can breathe
Freely where she will-beneath
Polar darkness, tropic star,
Impoverished Delhi, dark Bahár,
And all the regions bright and far,
Where India's sweet-voiced women are

SYBILLA.

SYBILLA! Dost thou love?

Oh, swear! Oh, swear!
By those steadfast stars above!
By this pure sweet air!

By all things true, and deep, and fair!
By hearts made rich with love,
Made wise by care!

Sybilla! I love thee!

I swear, I swear-
By all bright things that be!
By thyself, my fair!

By thine eyes, and motions free!
By thy sting, thou honey-bee!
By thy angel thoughts that flee
Singing through the golden air,
I swear, I swear!
Sybilla! dost thou frown?
Beware, beware!

If scorn thy beauty crown,

I fly-yet where ?

Why are thine eyes withdrawn?
Why dost thou turn, thou fawn?
Look on me, like the dawn

On weeping air!

She smiles-Oh, Beauty bless'd,
Take-take me to thy breast,

And cure all care!

THOU HAST LOVE WITHIN THINE EYES

THOU hast love within thine eyes,
Though they be as dark as night;
And a pity (shown by sighs)
Heaveth in thy bosom white;
What is all the azure light
Which the flaxen beauties show,

If the scorn be sharp and bright,
Where the tender love should glow?
Do I love thee?-Lady, no!
I was born for other skies,
Where the palmy branches grow,
And the unclouded mornings rise;
There (when sudden evening dies)

I will tell of thee, before

The beauty of Dione's eyes,
And she shall love thee evermore.

A MIDSUMMER FANCY.

COME hither! Let thou and I

Mount on the dolphin, Pleasure,
And dive through the azure air!
Would't not be fine-would't not be rare,
To live in that sweet, sweet sea, the air—
That ocean which hath no measure,

No peril, no rocky shore,
(But only its airv, airy streams,

And its singing stars, and its orbed dreams,)
For ever and evermore !

Of its wild and its changing weather
What matter-how foul or fair?
We will ever be found together:
Ah! then, sweet Love, what care,
Whether we haunt on the earth or air?
In ocean or inland stream?

Or are lost in some endless, endless dream?
Or are bodiless made, like the tender sprite
Of Love, who watch'd me but yesternight,
With moon-flowers white on her whiter brow,
And smiled and sighed,

In her sad sweet pride,
As Thou, fair girl! dost now.

PAST AND PRESENT.

In earlier days, in happier hours,

I watched and wandered with the Sun:
I saw him when the East was red;
I saw him when the day was dead-

All his earthly journey done!
Looks of love were in the West,
But he passed-and took no rest!

O'er the immeasurable blue,
Across the rain, amid the blast,

Onward and onward, like a God,
Through the trackless air he trod,
Scattering bounties as he passed
By the portals of the West-
And never shut his eyes in rest!

Oh, how in those too happy hours-
How deeply then did I adore

The bright unwearied sleepless Sun,
And wish, just thus, my course to run-
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,

My deeds thus good, thus known, thus bright,
Thus undisturbed by rest or night.

But now since I have heard and seen
The many cares that trouble life,

The evil that requiteth good,
The benefits not understood,
Unfilial, unpaternal strife,
The hate, the lie, the bitter jest—
I feel how sweet are night and rest!

And, oh! what morning ever look'd
So lovely as the quiet eve,

When low and fragrant winds arise,
And draw the curtains of the skies,
And gentle songs of summer weave-
Such as between the alders creep,
Now, and sooth my soul to sleep!

ON SOME HUMAN BONES, FOUND ON A HEADLAND IN THE BAY OF PANAMA.

VAGUE Mystery hangs on all these desert places!

The fear which hath no name, hath wrought a spell! Strength, courage, wrath-have been, and left no traces! They came-and fled: but whither? Who can tell? We know but that they were-that once (in days When ocean was a bar 'twixt man and man) Stout spirits wandered o'er these capes and bays, And perished where these river waters ran, Methinks they should have built some mighty tomb, Whose granite might endure the century's rain— Cold winter, and the sharp night winds, that boom Like Spirits in their purgatorial pain.

They left, 'tis said, their proud unburied bones
To whiten on this unacknowledged shore:
Yet naught beside the rocks and worn sea-stones,
Now answer to the great Pacific's roar!
A mountain stands where Agamemnon died,
And Cheops hath derived eternal fame,
Because he made his tomb a place of pride:

And thus the dead Metella earned a name.
But these they vanished as the lightnings die
(Their mischiefs over) in the affrighted earth;
And no one knoweth underneath the sky,
What heroes perished here, nor whence their birth!

'TIS BETTER WE LAUGH THAN WEEP.

WHY, why doth your music grieve

In passion so grave and deep?

Ah! sweet Musicians, believe,
'Tis better we laugh than weep.

Say, say both grave and gay,

Should we not laugh, whene'er we may ?
Thro' day and night, thro' night and day?

Life, life has its share of pain;

Yet for ever why weep or fear? Since the Past ne'er cometh again, And To-morrow is not yet here? All, all that is quite our own,

Is the minute we touch to-day,
And that, while we speak, is flown,
And beareth its ills away!

So, let not your music grieve
In melodies grave nor deep;
For, dear Musicians, believe,
'Tis better we laugh than weep!

A DRINKING SONG.

DRINK, and fill the night with mirth!
Let us have a mighty measure,

Till we quite forget the earth,

And soar into the world of pleasure.
Drink, and let a health go round,

('Tis the drinker's noble duty,)
To the eyes that shine and wound,
To the mouths that bud in beauty!
Here's to Helen! Why, ah! why
Doth she fly from my pursuing?
Here's to Marian, cold and shy!
May she warm before thy wooing!
Here's to Janet! I've been e'er,

Boy and man, her stanch defender,
Always sworn that she was fair,

Always known that she was tender!

Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!
Let them with the champaign tremble.
Like the loose wrack in the sky,

When the four wild winds assemble! Here's to all the love on earth,

(Love, the young man's, wise man's, treasure!)

Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!
Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!

SISTER, I CAN NOT READ TO-DAY.
SISTER, I can not read to day!

Before my eyes the letters stream;
Now-one by one-they fade away,
Like shadows in a dream:
All seems a fancy, half forgot;
Sweet sister, do I dream or not?

I can not work; I can not rest;
I can not sing-nor think, to day;
The wild heart panteth in my breast,
As though 'twould break away.
Why-wherefore-Ah, girl! case my wo,
And tell me why he tarrieth so!

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