Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell
Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle!

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,
Blend a celestial with a human heart;

And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,
Share with immortal transports? Could thine art
Make them indeed immortal, and impart

The purity of heaven to earthly joys,
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart

The dull satiety which all destroys

[cloys?

And root from out the soul the deadly weed which Alas! our young affections run to waste,

Or water but the desert; whence arise

The weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes; Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. Oh, Love! no habitant of earth thou artAn unseen seraph, we believe in thee, A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy,

And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'd-weariedwrung and riven.

EUTHANASIA.

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring

The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,

Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed.
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to Earth,

With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.
Yet Love! if Love in such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.

'Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past;

Even Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath, And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret without a groan! For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown.

66 Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go!

To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seenCount o'er thy days from anguish free,

And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be.

MARINO FALIERO'S IMPRECATION AGAINST

VENICE.

I speak to Time and to Eternity,

Of which I grow a portion, not to man.
Ye elements! in which to be resolved

I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit

Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my banner,
Ye winds! which fluttered o'er as if you loved it,
And filled my swelling sails as they were wafted
To many a triumph! Thou, my native earth,
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth,
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but
Reek up to heaven! Ye skies, which will receive it!
Thou sun! which shinest on these things, and Thou!
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns!—Attest!
I am not innocent but are these guiltless ?
I perish, but not unavenged; far ages

Float up from the abyss of time to be,

And show these eyes, before they close, the doom
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse
On her and hers for ever!-Yes, the hours
Are silently engendering of the day,

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark,
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield
Unto a bastard Attila, without

Shedding so much blood in her last defence

As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her,
Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought
And sold, and be an appanage to those

Who shall despise her!-She shall stoop to be

A province for an empire, petty town
In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates,
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people!
Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his!
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need
Make their nobility a plea for pity!

Then when the few who still retain a wreck
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn
Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent,
Even in the palace where they swayed as sovereigns,
Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign,
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung
From an adultress boastful of her guilt

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier,
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph
To the third spurious generation;—when
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being,
Slaves turned o'er to the vanquished by the victors;
Despised by cowards for greater cowardice,
And scorned even by the vicious for such vices
As in the monstrous grasp of their conception
Defy all codes to image or to name them;
Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom,
All thine inheritance shall be her shame
Entailed on thy less virtuous daughters, grown
A wider proverb for worse prostitution ;—

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee;
Vice without splendour; sin without relief
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er,
But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude,

Prurient, yet passionless, cold studied lewdness,

Depraving Nature's frailty to an art;
When these and more are heavy on thee, when
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure,
Youth without honour, age without respect,

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and darest not

murmur,

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts,
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony,

Amidst thy many murders think of mine!
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes!
Gehenna of the waters! thou sea Sodom!

Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods!
Thee and thy serpent seed!

[Here the Doge turns, and addresses the executioner. Slave, do thine office!

Strike as I struck the foe!

Have struck those tyrants!

Strike and but once!

Strike as I would

Strike deep as my cursę!

[The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as the executioner raises his sword the scene closes.

FAREWELL.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
"Twere vain to speak-to weep-to sigh:
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain,