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The little cloud-it floats away,

Away it goes; away so soon?
Alas! it has no power to stay :
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray-

Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,

Ever fading more and more, To joyless regions of the sky,

And now 't is whiter than before !
As white as my poor cheek will be,

When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind
And yet thou didst not look unkind.

O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts; while oft unseen,

Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,
I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,

Beckons me on, or follows from behind,
Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quellid,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake

and form a melancholy vault
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

Soar up,

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I saw a vapor in the sky,

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; Thin, and white, and very high ;

Here too the lovelorn man who, sick in soul, I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud :

And of this busy human heart aweary, Perhaps the breezes that can fly

Worships the spirit of unconscious life Now below and now above,

In tree or wild-flower.-Gentle Lunatic! Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud

If so he might not wholly cease to be, Of Lady fair—that died love.

He would far rather not be that, he is ; For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd

But would be something, that he knows not of,
From fruitless love too fondly cherish’d.

In winds or waters, or among the rocks!
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind
For Lewti never will be kind.

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion
Hush! my heedless feet from under

here! Slip the crumbling banks for ever:

No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves Like echoes to a distant thunder,

Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood They plunge into the gentle river.

He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore The river-swans have heard my tread,

His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn And startle from their reedy bed.

Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
O beauteous, Birds! methinks ye measure

Easily caught, ensnare him, 0 ye Nymphs,
Your movements to some heavenly tune! Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades !
O beauteous Birds! 't is such a pleasure

And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn | To see you move beneath the moon,

The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! I would it were your true delight

You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between To sleep by day and wake all night.

The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,

Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, I know the place where Lewti lies,

The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bedWhen silent night has closed her eyes :

Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, It is a breezy jasmine-bower,

Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. The nightingale sings o'er her head :

Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elsin Gnomes ! Voice of the Night! had I the power

With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
That leafy labyrinth to thread,

His little Godship, making him perforce
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back
I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,

This is my hour of triumph! I can now
As these two swans together heave

With my own fancies play the merry fool, On the gently swelling wave.

And laugh away worse folly, being free. Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

Here will I seat myself, beside this old, And dreamt that I had died for care ;

Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine

Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch my All pale and wasted I would seem,

limbs, Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! I'd die indeed, if I might see

Close by this river, in this silent shade,

As safe and sacred from the step of man
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!

As an invisible world—unheard, unseen,
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
Tomorrow Lewti may be kind.

And list'ning only to the pebbly brook

That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound;
1795.

Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me,

Was never Love's accomplice, never raised

The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek; RESOLUTION.

Ne'er play'd the wanton--never half-disclosed

The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
THROUGH weeds and thorns, and matted underwood Eye-poisons for some love-distemper'd youth,
I force my way; now climb, and now descend

Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove

Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart

Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye!

With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds, Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,

Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour That swells its little breast, so full of song,

Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, pass forth into light-I find myself Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,

Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods), The face, the form divine, the downcast look Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock Contemplative! Behold! her open palm

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,

Fold in behind each other, and so make That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile

A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, stealth

Ilalf hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, (For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now

The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray, With sted fast gaze and unoffending eye,

Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall. Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes

How solemnly the pendent ivy mass Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,

Swings in its winnow: all the air is calm. Een as that phantom-world on which he gazed,

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with But noi unheeded gazed : for see, ah! see,

light, The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks

Rises in columns ; from this house alone, The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,

Close by the waterfall, the column slants, Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells :

And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this? And suddenly, as one that toys with time,

That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm

And close beside its porch a sleeping child, Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair

His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dogVanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,

One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,

Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes! Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon

A curious picture, with a master's haste The visions will return! And lo! he stays :

Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin, And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms

Peel'd from the birchen bark! Divinest maid! Come trembling back, unite, and now once more

Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries The pool becomes a mirror; and behold

Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there,

On the fine skin! She has been newly here ; And there the half-uprooted tree-but where,

And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couchO where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd

The pressure still remains! O blessed couch! On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone!

For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun, Homeward she steals through many a woodland Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long

Upon thy purple bells ! 0 Isabel ! Which he shall seek in vain. Il-fated youth!

Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids ! Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime

More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed, In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,

The Lesbian woman of immortal song! Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou

O child of genius! stately, beautiful, Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,

And full of love to all, save only me, The Naiad of the Mirror!

And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,

Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood Not to thee,

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway

On to her father's house. She is alone! O wild and desert Stream! belongs this tale:

The night draws on—such ways are hard to hit Gloomy and dark art thou—the crowded firs

And fit it is I should restore this sketch, Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,

Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn Making thee doleful as a cavern-well :

To keep the relic? 't will but idly feed
Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream: The picture in my hand which she has left,

The passion that consumes me. Let me haste !

She cannot blame me that I follow'd her; This be my chosen haunt-emancipate

And I may be her guide the long wood through.
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,
I rise and trace its devious course. O lead,
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.
Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs,

THE NIGHT-SCENE.
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
Dart off asunder with an angry sound,
How soon to reunite! And see! they meet,
Each in the other lost and found : and see You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ?

maze

SANDOVAL

EARL HENRY.

Loved ?

Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it:
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,

A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

SANDOVAL

Did you not say you woo'd her ?

SANDOVAL.

EARL HENRY.

SANDOVAL

EARL HENRY.

SANDOVAL (with a sarcastic smile).

Once I loved No other than as eastern sages paint,
Her whom I dared not woo!

The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,

Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,

And woo'd, perchance, Relapses into bliss. One whom you loved not !

EARL HENRY.

Ah! was that bliss

Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man?

Oh! I were most basé, For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her,
Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
Met my advances with impassion'd pride,

I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd

Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou? The golden circlet in his hand, rejected

I swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd My suit with insult, and in memory

The purpose and the substance of my being, of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head,

I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, Her blessings overlook and baffled them!

I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers.But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance

Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

I now will go—all objects there will teach me
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her-

Say nothing of me-I myself will seek her-
Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.

Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment But Oropeza—

And keen inquiry of that scanning eye

[EARL HENRY retires into the wood Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage,

SANDOVAL (alone). Beneath the walls, which opens out at length

O Henry! always strivest thou to be great Into the gloomiest covert of the garden

By thine own act-yet art thou never great The night ere my departure to the army,

But by the inspiration of great passion. She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And to that covert by a silent stream,

And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they Which, with one star reflected near its marge,

stand, Was the sole object visible around me.

As though they were the pillars of a temple, No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;

Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us !

But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit No leaflet stirr'd ;-yet pleasure hung upon

Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand,
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.

And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins !
A little further on an arbor stood,
Fragrant with flowering trees-I well remember
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness
Their snow-white blossoms made—thither she led
me,

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,
To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled-
I heard her heart beat-if 't were not my own.

HER INNOCENCE.

EARL HENRY.

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF

SANDOVAL.

A rude and scaring note, my friend !

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray!

EARL HENRY.

Oh! no!
I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love :
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,
Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy.
The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us :
We were all life, each atom of our frames
A living soul-I vow'd to die for her:
With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!

Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing !

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wood and whisper'd thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk

O give me, from this heartless scene released, Wert thou danced and wafted high To hear our old musician, blind and gray Soon on this unshelter'd walk

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), Flung to fade, to rot and die.

His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the tedded hay

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay THEATRE.

Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,
MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
Sittest behind those virgins gay,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,

That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,

But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Fearful saw his pleading look,

And the gust pelting on the out-house shed
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Soft the glances of the youth,

Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ;

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! But no sound like simple truth,

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures But no true love in his eye.

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees,
Lothing thy polluted lot,

Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!

Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.
With a wiser innocence.
Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe :

THE KEEPSAKE.
With a musing melancholy
Inly arm’d, go, Maiden! go.

THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
Mother sage of Self-dominion,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!

Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Is the memory of past folly.

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

(In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes,

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms : Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, Soon with renovated wing

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Shall she dare a loftier flight,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* l'pward to the day-star spring,

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
And ernbathe in heavenly light.

With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew I

loved),
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked

By her full bosor's joyous restlessness, Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,

Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, In intricacies of laborious song.

Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,

Making a quiet image of disquiet
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;

There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
Bursts in a squall—they gape for wonderment.

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate !

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer * One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve

inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,

the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergiss, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden.

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:

You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say

How can we do without her?
Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing !

TO A LADY.

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY

NATURAL

WITH FALCONER'S “SHIPWRECK."

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

An! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,

And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark! Cling to the shrouds !” In vain! The breakers

roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the

If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

HOME-SICK.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY.

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Of Gratitude! Remembrances of Friend,

Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last ! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to

thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day
And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;

This feel I hourly more and more : There's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore !

TO A YOUNG LADY. ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

Why need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here

A lovely convalescent;
Risen from the bed of pain and fear,

And feverish heat incessant. The sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I

With their sweet influencing.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the

Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush, say, “ I love and I love !"

In the winter they 're silent—the wind is so strong,
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather,
And singing, and loving-all come back together

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