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SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
A mind at peace with all below,
IF THAT HIGH WORLD
IF that high world, which lies beyond
The eye the same, except in tears-
It must be so: 'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulf, Yet cling to Being's severing link.
Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares;
And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!
O! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM
O! SNATCH'D away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb,
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! 10
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress;
Or make one mourner weep the less!
WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY
WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay,
But leaves its darken'd dust behind.
By steps each planet's heavenly way?
A thing of eyes, that all survey?
Eternal, boundless, undecay'd,
Shall it survey, shall it recall:
In one broad glance the soul beholds,
Its eye shall roll through chaos back;
Its glance dilate o'er all to be,
Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear,
Its years as moments shall endure.
O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly,
Forgetting what it was to die.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING
So, we'll go no more a roving
Though the heart be still as loving,
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
Though the night was made for loving,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD
Оч, talk not to me of a name great in story ;
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!
Oh FAME!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,