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Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death?
With the fears and the love for that which we see?
ΔΑΚΡΥΕΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤΜΟΝ ΑΠΟΤΜΟΝ.
OH! there are spirits in the air,
As star-beams among twilight trees :
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.
With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
Did thine own mind afford no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles.
Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
Night's ghost and dreams have now departed;
Thine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.
This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know
AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's ungentle mood : Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep; Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows ; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings, are not free
From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.
THE cold earth slept below,
With a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow,
The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,
On the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track,
Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light,
On a sluggish stream
Gleams dimly-so the moon shone there,
The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;
On thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF BONAPARTE.
I HATED thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave