But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,

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.

CLXXI.

STANZAS.

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.

HE sun is warm, the sky is clear,

THE

The waves are dancing fast and bright,

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might :

The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,

The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The city's voice itself is soft like solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:

I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
in meditation found,

The

sage

And walked with inward glory crowned

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live and call life pleasure ;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are ;

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;

They might lament-for I am one

Whom men love not-and yet regret,

Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

CLXXII.

M'

SONG.

TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND.

EN of England, wherefore plough

For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,

Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat-nay, drink your

blood?

Wherefore, bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps ;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.

Sow seed, but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth,-let no impostor heap;
Weave robes,-let not the idle wear;
Forge arms,-in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.

Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, Trace your grave, and build your tomb, And weave your winding-sheet, till fair England be your sepulchre.

CLXXIII.

Ο

ΤΟ

NE word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not;