A 
 
 '- ' ' 
 
 -
 
 Ex tibris 
 
 L. OGDEN 1 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 IX 
 
 POEMS 
 
 v. 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 WITH SOME ADDITIONS. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 1841.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY BLATCH AND LAllFEItT, GROVE PLACE, BROMPTOK.
 
 PR 
 44-54 
 C75A/7 
 1841 
 
 ERRATUM. 
 
 Page 46, second line from the bottom, for "lost," 
 read " last." 
 
 And Solitude and Sorrow close around ; 
 My fellow-travellers one by one are gone, 
 
 Their home is reach' d, but mine must still be 
 
 found. 
 The sun that set as the last bow'd his head, 
 
 To cross the threshold of his resting place, 
 Has left the world devoid of all that made 
 
 Its business, pleasure, happiness, and grace. 
 
 11
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BT BLATCH AND LAMPERT, GROVE PLACE, BROJ1PTOW.
 
 C75A/7 
 1841 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 STARLIGHT. 
 
 DARKLING methinks the path of life is grown, 
 
 And Solitude and Sorrow close around ; 
 My fellow-travellers one by one are gone, 
 
 Their home is reach' d, but mine must still be 
 
 found. 
 The sun that set as the last bow'd his head, 
 
 To cross the threshold of his resting place, 
 Has left the world devoid of all that made 
 
 Its business, pleasure, happiness, and grace. 
 
 11
 
 But I have still the desert path to trace; 
 
 Nor with the day has my day's work an end ; 
 And winds and shadows through the cold air chase, 
 
 And earth looks dark where walk'd we friend with 
 
 friend. 
 And yet thus wilder' d, not without a guide, 
 
 I wander on amid the shades of night ; 
 My home-fires gleam, methinks, and round them 
 glide 
 
 My friends at peace, far off, but still in sight; 
 For through the closing gloom, mine eyesight goes 
 
 Further in heav'n than when the day was bright ; 
 And there as Earth still dark and darker grows, 
 
 Shines out for every shade a world of light. 
 
 1828.
 
 AT LLYNCMSTRAETHY. 
 
 As one whose country is distraught with war, 
 
 Where each must guard his own with watchful 
 hand, 
 
 Roams at the evening hour along the shore, 
 And fain would seek heyond a calmer land ; 
 
 So I, perplexed, on life's tumultuous way, 
 Where evil powers too oft my soul enslave, 
 
 Along thy ocean, Death, all pensive stray, 
 And think of shores thy further billows lave. 
 
 And glad were I to hear the boatman's cry, 
 
 Which to his shadowy bark my steps should call, 
 
 To woe and weakness heave my latest sigh, 
 And cease to combat where so oft I fall.
 
 8 
 
 Or happier, when some victory cheer'd my breast, 
 That hour to quit the anxious field would choose; 
 
 And seek th' eternal seal on virtue's rest, 
 Oft won, oft lost, and oh, too dear to lose!
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 I STOOD within the grave's o'ershadowing vault; 
 
 Gloomy and damp it stretch'd its vast domain; 
 Shades were its boundary ; for my strained eye 
 sought 
 
 For other limit to its width in vain. 
 
 Faint from the entrance came a daylight ray, 
 And distant sound of living men and things ; 
 
 This, in th' encountering darkness pass'd away, 
 That, took the tone in which a mourner sings. 
 
 I lit a torch at a sepulchral lamp, 
 
 Which shot a thread of light amid the gloom; 
 And feebly burning 'gainst the rolling damp, 
 
 I bore it through the regions of the tomb.
 
 10 
 
 Around me stretch'd the slumbers of the dead, 
 "Whereof the silence ach'd upon mine ear; 
 
 More and more noiseless did I make my tread, 
 And yet its echoes chill' d my heart with fear. 
 
 The former men of every age and place, 
 
 From all their wand'rings gather' d, round me lay; 
 
 The dust of wither' d Empires did I trace, 
 And stood 'mid Generations pass'd away. 
 
 I saw whole cities, that in flood or fire, 
 
 Or famine or the plague, gave up their breath; 
 
 Whole armies whom a day beheld expire, 
 
 Swept by ten thousands to the arms of Death. 
 
 I saw the old world's white and wave-swept bones, 
 A giant heap of creatures that had been; 
 
 Far and confus'd the broken skeletons 
 
 Lay strewn beyond mine eye's remotest ken.
 
 11 
 
 Death's various shrines the Urn, the Stone, the 
 Lamp 
 
 Were scatter' d round, confus'd, amid the dead; 
 Symbols and Types were mould' ring in the damp, 
 
 Their shapes were waning and their meaning fled. 
 
 Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe, 
 Were character' d on tablets Time had swept ; 
 
 And deep were half their letters hid below 
 
 The thick small dust of those they once had wept. 
 
 No hand was here to wipe the dust away; 
 
 No reader of the writing trac'd beneath; 
 No spirit sitting by its form of clay; 
 
 No sigh nor sound from all the heaps of Death. 
 
 One place alone had ceas'd to hold its prey; 
 
 A form had press'd it and was there no more; 
 The garments of the Grave beside it lay, 
 
 Where once they wrapp'd him on the rocky floor.
 
 12 
 
 He only with returning footsteps broke 
 
 Th' eternal calm wherewith the Tomb was bound; 
 Among the sleeping Dead alone He woke, 
 
 And bless'd with outstretch'd hands the host 
 around. 
 
 Well is it that such blessing hovers here, 
 To soothe each sad survivor of the throng, 
 
 Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere, 
 And pour their woe the loaded air along. 
 
 They to the verge have folio w'd what they love, 
 And on th' insuperable threshold stand; 
 
 With cherish' d names its speechless calm reprove, 
 And stretch in the abyss their ungrasp'd hand. 
 
 But vainly there they seek their soul's relief, 
 And of th' obdurate Grave its prey implore; 
 
 Till Death himself shall medicine their grief, 
 Closing their eyes by those they wept before.
 
 13 
 
 All that have died, the Earth's whole race, repose, 
 "Where Death collects his Treasures, heap on heap; 
 
 O'er each one's busy day, the nightshades close; 
 Its Actors, Sufferers, Schools, Kings, Armies 
 sleep.
 
 YOUTH TOOK ONE SUMMER DAY HIS LYRE. 
 
 YOUTH took one summer day his lyre, 
 And idly struck each golden wire; 
 Just as fancy bade him play 
 Rose and sank the flowing lay ; 
 Time and place he car'd not for, 
 Yet his wand' ring hand had more 
 That music of her votary asks 
 Than the student's gravest tasks. 
 Sweet notes came out, and hung around 
 Like a cloud of precious sound ; 
 Blending frolic tones, whose mirth 
 Seem'd all that there is gay on earth,
 
 15 
 
 With some which e'en the heart would melt 
 Of those who fear'd, or lov'd, or felt. 
 
 While thus he play'd, a form pass'd by, 
 
 With aiding staff and calm cold eye; 
 
 And stopp'd to hear his fingers bring 
 
 Such music from his careless string. 
 
 " Grey Age," cried Youth, and smil'd, and staid 
 
 The hand that on the lyre was laid; 
 
 " Delayest thou to hear one twine 
 
 Such an idle tune as mine?" 
 
 " Aye, fair Youth," replied the Sage; 
 
 " Many a fond ear there may be; 
 But be sure there's none like Age, 
 
 " Kind, and fond, and friend to thee." 
 " Nay, dost thou say so?" Youth replied : 
 " Then shall a worthier strain be tried; 
 I'll give my wandering notes a rule, 
 
 And tame my idle melody;
 
 16 
 
 My musings what grave theme shall school? 
 
 Kind, grey Age, I'll sing of thee." 
 He changed his key; a graver one, 
 A slower time was now hegun; 
 Yet ever through the measure press' d 
 The accents of his frolic breast; 
 And though the theme was Age, in sooth, 
 The singer and the song were Youth. 
 " Thou anchorest in the port of life, 
 
 The storm is brav'd, the sea behind; 
 And rescued from its oft-prov'd strife, 
 
 Listenest the raging of the wind. 
 I have loos' d my summer bark; 
 
 Sky, and sea, and earth look fair; 
 And yet they say 'twill all be dark, 
 
 Before I too am anchor' d there. 
 Is it so ? "Within my breast 
 
 There's such a flood and pulse of glee, 
 That let Misfortune do her best, 
 
 Methinks there must be Joy for me.
 
 17 
 
 But thou through Joy and Grief hast mov' J, 
 "NVhat I am proving thou hast prov'd. 
 Hope says to me, the Storms that lower 
 Will break before my bright Sun's power; 
 Or if I dread to meet the gloom, 
 She tells me it will never come. 
 Thou needest not Hope's guiding eye, 
 
 For come what will thy strength is ready: 
 My spread sail trusts the summer sky, 
 
 But thine is furl'd, thy anchor steady. 
 Oh Age! thou hast forgot how sweet 
 
 'Tis to believe all things are true; 
 To think each wish its aim will meet, 
 
 And midday keep morn's lovely hue. 
 Yet know I, thou wouldst not resume, 
 E'en if thou couldst, that feeling's bloom - 
 No, Age, again thou wouldst not be 
 A light and idle thing, like me. 
 Full many 
 The gather' d number of thy years; 
 
 c
 
 18 
 
 Good deeds around thee shed a light, 
 And spirit strengthen'd in the fight; 
 And calm wide views of things that seem 
 To me like some mysterious dream. 
 Then, too, thy lighted hearth around, 
 Are steady friends by prov'd ties bound; 
 And all that love thee now must be 
 Still loved through wide eternity. 
 But oh! there's many a broken tie 
 
 "Will mark my oft-united way; 
 I see full many a changing eye, 
 
 And I I love as light as they. 
 
 " But Age ! he speaks no truth who says 
 That mine are all life's sunny rays; 
 Thou its high mountains steep upon, 
 Above the clime of flowers art gone, 
 Yet day-beams gild that head of thine, 
 That reach not these brown locks of mine;
 
 19 
 
 Beams of another day, that lie 
 
 For me beyond full many a sorrow; 
 While thou above them, stand' st on high, 
 
 Beholding now the kindling morrow. 
 Ah ! tell me of that new-born light, 
 
 Those purer scenes that round thee rise; 
 And how, if Grief must cloud delight, 
 
 To make it lead me to the skies. 
 And I will breathe upon thine ear 
 
 Tones of the wild unburthen'd glee, 
 Which thou wilt love e'en yet to hear, 
 
 For once such tones belong' d to thee; 
 Yes, Age the life of each we'll make 
 
 The sweeter in that both partake." 
 
 c2
 
 WRITTEN IN ILLNESS. 
 
 MY bark floats on the sea of death, 
 Of deepening waves the sport; 
 
 And dull disease, with heavy breath, 
 Impels me from the port. 
 
 "Wide and unknown, the ocean surge 
 
 Outstretches to my ken; 
 Oh! when I reach yon cloudy verge, 
 
 What sights will meet me then? 
 
 Thee, native world, full well I know; 
 
 And as thy shores recede, 
 Mine eyes still wander from the pnr.v, 
 
 Thy well-known forms to read.
 
 21 
 
 There shines the light that first I knew, 
 The scenes that light displayed; 
 
 From which my soul the feelings drew, 
 Whereof itself was made. 
 
 There lie the shapes of joys and ills, 
 Which mov'd erewhile my mind; 
 
 Like storms and suns upon the hills 
 The traveller leaves behind. 
 
 But still receding, wafted on, 
 
 All indistinct they grow; 
 The busy crowd that moves thereon 
 
 To me is silent now. 
 
 Its glittering ray mine eye escapes, 
 The mists are round me furl'd; 
 
 Farewell, farewell, ye human shapes! 
 Farewell, my native world! 
 1829.
 
 FORMER HOME. 
 
 IN scenes vmtrod for many a year, 
 I stand again, the long estranged; 
 
 And gazing round me, ponder here 
 On all that has, and has not changed. 
 
 The casual visiter would see 
 
 Naught altered in the aspects round; 
 But long familiar shapes to me 
 
 Are missing, which I fain had found. 
 
 Still stands the rock, still runs the flood, 
 Which not an eye could pass unmov'd; 
 
 The airy copse, the fringing wood, 
 
 Which e'en the passer mark'd and lov'd.
 
 23 
 
 But when mine eyes' delighted pride, 
 Had dwelt the rock's high front upon, 
 
 I sought upon its warmer side, 
 
 A vine we train'd and that was gone. 
 
 And though awhile content I gazed 
 
 Upon the river quick and fair; 
 I sought, ere long, a seat we raised 
 
 In childhood but it was not there. 
 
 Stones lay around, I know not whether 
 Its relics, or the winter's snow 
 
 And sitting where we sate together, 
 Again I watch' d the torrent flow. 
 
 So whirl' d the waves that form'd it then, 
 In foam around yon jutting stone; 
 
 So arrowy shot they down the glen, 
 
 When here we pass'd the hours long flown.
 
 24 
 
 There in the waters dipp'd the tree 
 From which, the day I parted hence, 
 
 I took a few green leaves, to be 
 
 My solace still through time and chance. 
 
 Full many a spring the tree has shone 
 In sunlight, air, and beauty here; 
 
 While I in cities gazed upon 
 
 The wither'd leaves of that one year. 
 
 That year was fraught with heavy things, 
 With deaths and partings, loss and pain; 
 
 And every object round me rings 
 Its mournful epitaph again. 
 
 But most, those small familiar traits, 
 Which only we have lov'd or known; 
 
 They flourish'd with our happier days 
 They wither'd because we were gone.
 
 25 
 
 Their absence seems to speak of those 
 Who 're scatter'd far upon the earth; 
 
 At whose young hands they once arose, 
 Whose eyes gazed gleeful on their birth. 
 
 Those hands since then have grasp' d the brand, 
 Those eyes in grief grown dim and hot; 
 
 And wand' ring through a stranger's land, 
 Oft yearn' d to this remember' d spot. 
 
 How changed are they! how changed am I! 
 
 I was a boy then and 'tis gone; 
 Gone is each boyish vanity, 
 
 But what in manhood have I won? 
 
 I know not but while standing now, 
 Where open'd first the heart of youth, 
 
 I recollect how high would glow 
 
 Its thoughts of Glory, Faith, and Truth
 
 26 
 
 How full it was of good and great, 
 
 How true to heaven, how warm to men ; 
 
 Alas ! I scarce forbear to hate 
 The colder breast I bring again. 
 
 Hopes disappointed, sin and time 
 
 Have moulded me, since here I stood; 
 
 Ah ! paint old feelings, rock sublime, 
 
 Speak life's fresh accents, mountain flood !
 
 HEART'S EASE. 
 
 OH Heart-Ease, dost thou lie within that flower? 
 
 How shall I draw thee thence? so much I need 
 The healing aid of thine enshrined power 
 
 To veil the past and bid the time good speed ! 
 
 I gather it it withers on my breast; 
 
 The heart' s-ease dies when it is laid on mine; 
 Methinks there is no shape by joy possess' d, 
 
 Would better fare than thou, upon that shrine. 
 
 Take from me things gone by oh! change the past- 
 Renew the lost restore me the decay' d; 
 
 Bring back the days whose tide has ebb'd so fast 
 Give form again to the fantastic shade !
 
 28 
 
 My hope, that never grew to certainty, 
 My youth, that perish' d in its vain desire, 
 
 My fond ambition, crush' d e'er it could be 
 Aught save a self-consuming, wasted fire ; 
 
 Bring these anew, and set me once again 
 
 In the delusion of Life's Infancy 
 I was not happy, but I knew not then 
 
 That happy I was never doom'd to be. 
 
 Till these things are, and pow'rs divine descend 
 Love, kindness, joy, and hope, to gild my day, 
 
 In vain the emblem leaves towards me bend, 
 Thy Spirit, Heart-Ease, is too far away I
 
 WRITTEN IN HEALTH. 
 
 FORBID, oh Fate ! forbid that I 
 Should linger long before I die ! 
 Ah, let me not sad day by day 
 Upon a dying bed decay, 
 And learn to strain my lonely ear 
 To catch a footstep drawing near; 
 And oft my fainting eye-lid raise, 
 To see the friend who still delays. 
 Let me not hear the world pass by, 
 
 In all its splendour, love and pride; 
 While I have nothing but to die, 
 
 \Vhate' er my fellow-men betide. 
 Nor let me come by sad degrees 
 To feel each nobler feeling freeze;
 
 30 
 
 And lose my love, my hope, my strength, 
 All save the baser part of man; 
 
 Concentring every wish, at length, 
 To die as slowly as I can. 
 
 Oh no ! I wish, I hope, I pray 
 
 A better ending to my day. 
 
 I fain would mount some headlong steed, 
 
 And gallop o'er the cliff at speed; 
 
 Fall down a thousand fathoms there, 
 
 And leave my life mid-way in air. 
 
 I fain would meet in victory 
 
 A winged ball aim'd full at me; 
 
 Shout, as it came, my wild war-cry, 
 
 And 'ere the sound was ended, die. 
 
 I'd drink a deep delicious wine, 
 
 With hasty poison mix'd therein; 
 
 And with the sweetness on my breath, 
 Die, ere I felt that it was death. 
 I'd die in battle, love, or glee, 
 With spirit wild, and body free,
 
 31 
 
 With all my wit, my soul, my heart, 
 Burning away in every part, 
 That so more meetly I might fly 
 Into mine immortality ; 
 Like comets when their race is run, 
 That end by rushing on the sun. 
 ***** 
 *****
 
 FRONTISPIECE OF AN ALBUM, 
 
 FILLED WITH THE WORKS OF ART OF THREE SISTERS FOR 
 THEIR MOTHER. 
 
 As on a lake the water-flow' rs arise, 
 
 Nurs'd by its bosom to the forms they wear, 
 
 Aud floating o'er it, paint it with their dyes, 
 And shed a tribute of their perfume there; 
 
 So, mother, by thy cares all gently brought 
 From the dark nothingness of infancy, 
 And in our folded youth, inspired by thee 
 
 To shine in talent, or expand in thought, 
 
 AVt- offer to thee, like the thankful flow'rs, 
 An image of the minds that by thee live; 
 
 And in the incense of their open'd pow'rs, 
 
 Return a tribute back of that which thou didst gin-.
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 ( PART II. ) 
 
 BENEATH a Tree's green leafy shade, 
 
 In Life's profusion freshly spread, 
 
 On herbage rich, and blossoms fair, 
 
 Fraught with the vigor of the year, 
 
 Poor Youth was stretch' d, his wand' rings done 
 
 His silent Lyre beside him lying; 
 His smile, and eye's gay frolic, gone, 
 
 For Youth beneath the Tree lay dying. 
 Stopp'd sudden in its midway flow, 
 Hard struggled Life against the blow;
 
 34 
 
 As streams engulph'd in yawning caves, 
 
 Will foam aiid strive before they cease : 
 Not like the lapse of quiet waves, 
 
 Uniting with the Seas in peace. 
 His lip, erewhile so fresh and red, 
 Was ghastly white as is the dead; 
 His fingers grasp' d the flow'rs around, 
 
 But senseless to their bloom and breath ; 
 No thoughts of Joy were with them bound, - 
 
 'Twas but the fever-grasp of Death. 
 O'er him the pallid figure hung, 
 Whom Youth in better days had sung; 
 The listener fond, and counsel sage, 
 Upright, yet merciful old Age. 
 lit- who, alas! 'mid life and glee, 
 Had seen full oft his Memory 
 
 In Youth's wild heart wax dim; 
 But who through every changing hour, 
 Of Sunshine's gleam or Tempest's pow'r, 
 
 Had ne'er forgotten him.
 
 35 
 
 Oh! had thine eye beheld that pair 
 
 So lonely and so mournful there! 
 
 Grey Age, with eyes that told of woe, 
 
 And fill'd, but did not overflow; 
 
 Poor Youth, at times toward him turning 
 
 The glance, where Life's last flame was burning; 
 
 Iladst thou beheld them, 'twould have made 
 
 All Nature's pomp look sad awhile, 
 
 "When thinking on that dying bed, 
 
 Where bloom and sunshine lost their smile. 
 
 Twas pain to Youth, to think the Sun, 
 
 He lov'd so well to look upon, 
 
 Would walk whole years the noble sky, 
 
 And waken not his marble eye; 
 
 To think so many a moon-lit night, 
 
 And tempest with its lov'd storm-light, 
 
 And dewy morn with opal clouds, 
 
 And rose-tints deepening from their shrouds, 
 
 Should pass above him, and yet move 
 
 In him, no glow, nor fire, nor love. 
 
 D2
 
 36 
 
 His heart, too, ach'd, to think how many 
 
 Would soon forget he e'er had been; 
 And next it ask'd itself if any 
 
 Would miss him long from Life's quick scene. 
 Ah! one, perchance, would cherish yet 
 
 Thoughts of his life and early lot ; 
 He rais'd the eyes where Death was set, 
 
 And murmur' d "Age, forget me not!" 
 
 And Age, would he forget him?-no 
 Youth felt it in the hands that press' d, 
 
 Before the word was spoken thro', 
 His form against that heaving breast. 
 
 The word was spoke the look was sped 
 
 The pang endured and Youth lay dead. 
 
 Then, when the hand no longer stirr'd, 
 The sinking breath no more was heard, 
 When dim the soul within those eyes, 
 And life had summon'd back its dyes,
 
 37 
 
 Then, on the cheek of Age there pass'd 
 The tear-drops flowing o'er at last; 
 And with no eye save that which slept 
 To look upon his face, he wept. 
 
 On many an eve, when twilight shed 
 Its hues o'er Youth's untimely bed, 
 Not distant far, grey Age .would sit 
 Before the name he there had writ; 
 And with past time within the tomb, 
 Mingle the thoughts of days to come. 
 Not his such grief as Youth's had been; 
 His heart was mild, his brow serene; 
 Still kept his soul its quiet mood; 
 
 Each living tie was car'd-for still; 
 Nay, he could even deem it good 
 
 That cherish' d head was hid from ill. 
 And though the only ray was gone, 
 Which on his wintry evening shone, 
 He mark'd the change with patient eye, 
 And wish'd, but Jid not ask to d 1 ' ;
 
 38 
 
 Though 'twas the tie for which he liv'd, 
 He did not grieve as Youth had griev'd. 
 
 For Age was drawing near the shore, 
 Where friends who meet shall part no more; 
 Almost upon his quiet ear, 
 
 That country's voice at times would rise; 
 Almost within his atmosphere, 
 
 Was hent a day-beam of its skies. 
 And firmly did he tread his way, 
 
 Tho' clouded now, and cold and drear; 
 Advancing grateful to the day, 
 
 Which dawn'd from out a happier sphere; 
 And grateful too for all the flow'rs, 
 
 That once his happier path had dress' d; 
 Rememb'ring, mid his broken bow'rs, 
 
 That e'en on earth he had been bless' d.
 
 THE MOSEL. 
 
 I PASSED a day on Mosel river, 
 A day beginning with the sun; 
 
 It ended not till light was over, 
 And then, alas! that it was done. 
 
 The early morn with dew was rife, 
 
 The low light shadowing out the scene; 
 
 Noon, with intensity of life, 
 
 And evening bright with crimson sheen. 
 
 Through glorious shores it flow'd for ever, 
 Revealed on our contented eyes; 
 
 It might have been that golden river, 
 On both whose banks was Paradise.
 
 40 
 
 I sate by thee, mine own dear friend, 
 And thou and I were there alone; 
 
 That day at least I did not fear 
 
 That we should part ere day was done. 
 
 We saw those lovely things together, 
 Which never will depart our mind ; 
 
 We saw and felt that blessed river, 
 Which now, alas! is far behind. 
 
 The liquid opal of the stream 
 
 Dark with the light obliquely shed ; 
 
 The reach far stretching to the beam, 
 Then doubling back whence first it sped; 
 
 Successive villages that rose, 
 
 Each with a spire addressed to God, 
 Quaint dwelling-places rear'd of those 
 
 Who long since slept beneath the sod;
 
 41 
 
 Groves bordering all the water-side, 
 With pathways where the peasants stood ; 
 
 And gathering into woods, whose pride 
 Adorned the hills above the flood. 
 
 And where the porph'ry rock threw out 
 Before the sun, its crimson sheet, 
 
 There, vineyards spread their wealth about, 
 Maturing in the noon-day heat. 
 
 And then along some shelving shore 
 
 The stream at times rushed swiftly past ; 
 
 The boatman, resting on his oar, 
 Let go our vessel light and fast. 
 
 And we, among the sudden stir 
 
 Of poppling waves, were carried by; 
 
 And to each other smiled to mark 
 The foam-flakes sparkle on the eye.
 
 42 
 
 Oh joyous river ! pleasant day ! 
 
 Not loud wert thou, but dear and bright; 
 And full of gladness, as the sky 
 
 Is full of air, the day of light. 
 
 How joyful will it be, to dwell 
 
 On thee, if bright my future days ; 
 
 But oh! if Grief renews its spell, 
 How sad will show thy former rays. 
 
 
 
 I pray thee, Time, reveal the way 
 That lies before my steps for ever ; 
 
 Shall I be glad or sorry, say, 
 To think upon the Mosel river?
 
 DEATH, DEATH ! OH ! AMIABLE, LOVELY 
 DEATH !" 
 
 THERE beat a heart whose life was grown 
 A thing by Grief made all its own; 
 Which felt Affliction's heavy power, 
 Each minute of each weary hour; 
 And counted every day that pass'd, 
 By being bitterer than the last. 
 Then came full many a lovely thing, 
 A comfort to his woe to bring, 
 And tried by smile,* and play, and jest, 
 To melt the icebands from his breast.
 
 44 
 
 Mirth, with her eye half hid below 
 The archly drooping lid of snow, 
 Danced near with feet as quick and bright 
 As glances from the wave the light, 
 And called him from his trance away, 
 To think no more, but laugh and play. 
 But oh ! that sweet, fantastic grace, 
 Met nought responsive in his face; 
 His heavy eye looked up in vain, 
 The brightness of her eye to gain; 
 It seemed his heart but ill could brook 
 The stir and sparkle of her look, 
 And while she still her revel kept, 
 He turned and hid his face, and wept. 
 
 Then Splendor came, and pour'd his store 
 Till Fancy could conceive no more; 
 And gave whatever Pride and Power 
 Could ask to deck their stateliest bow'r;
 
 45 
 
 But sad the gold and purple press'd 
 Upon the mourner's aching breast ; 
 And harsh the jewels' ray to him, 
 Whose weary sight with tears was dim. 
 He ever saw, 'mid all they gave, 
 The damp walls of a narrow grave; 
 The coffin where his gaze had strain' d, 
 To see the form that lid contain' d; 
 ' And heard, 'mid every festive spell, 
 The clods that on that coffin fell. 
 " Oh ! give me one, one kiss again, 
 Of lips that press'd themselves on mine; 
 What worth thy brightness and thy bloom, 
 While they are withering in the tomb ?" 
 
 Next Wit drew near all objects proving; 
 His quiv'ring wings for ever moving ; 
 Which as they met the soia.r rays 
 That fell upon their living blaze,
 
 46 
 
 Untwisted all the hues of light, 
 
 And gave a rainbow back to sight. 
 
 But he, the mourner, turned aside, 
 
 And thought how Love and Peace had died; 
 
 He could not see Wit's dazzling flame, 
 
 For still, between, his dark thoughts came ; 
 
 He could not hear the voice of Wit, 
 
 For there was Sorrow's drowning it. 
 
 Then came a form, whose steady eye 
 
 Unchanged let all things pass him by; 
 
 And pale and calm, came gazing on 
 
 Up to the sorrow-stricken one. 
 
 The wretch uprais'd his languid head, 
 
 And hail'd that wish'd-one's ling' ring tread; 
 
 And bared his breast, thereon to fold 
 
 The long'd-for touch, serene and cold. 
 
 " Lsjgt friend ! 'tis thou canst do," he cried, 
 
 " What Mirth, and Wit, and Splendour tried;
 
 47 
 
 Touch my hot heart, and weeping eye, 
 The heart will freeze, the lid will dry; 
 Unchain my soul, and let it be 
 Free 'mid the spirits of the free." 
 He spoke, and with departing hreath 
 Bless' d the restoring hand of Death.
 
 MAESYNEUDD. 
 
 ON THE SHORE OF A SMALL LAKE ABOVE THE HOI SE. 
 
 AH ! could I speak, I'd tell them then, 
 
 How glad a quiet life can be; 
 From glory far, and haunts of men, 
 
 By rippling brook, and grey oak tree. 
 
 Yet would I say that once my heart 
 Pined for those gayer, glitt'ring things; 
 
 And suffer' d many a silent smart, 
 
 "While Fortune chain' d its eager wings. 
 
 It dream' d, taat sweet it were to hear 
 The thousands shout its houor'd name; 
 
 And bless'd were e'en a brief career, 
 That ended at the shrine of Fame.
 
 49 
 
 Nor as I write that word e'en now, 
 
 Lies tranquil quite my youthful breast; 
 
 I feel the old emotion glow, 
 Waked by the glorious name from rest. 
 
 r 
 It would not sleep, and leave again 
 
 My soul in peace, to muse and stray: 
 Thought I, its fire were made in vain, 
 
 To shine, to grieve me, and decay. 
 
 I deem the day will yet be mine, 
 
 (Though first the grave my home must be,) 
 When Glory's star will o'er me shine, 
 
 And Honor ope its gates for me. 
 
 Those feelings by th' Almighty given, 
 Which He has bounded in their flight, 
 
 (Like wand' ring fire drawn down from heav'n, 
 An altar's narrow shrine to light;) 
 

 
 50 
 
 When those, their earthly task have done, 
 
 By stern affliction tutor' d here, 
 I deem they'll mount where thought would shun 
 
 To track their measureless career. 
 
 Not crowns obtain' d, nor battles fought, 
 Nor mortal pomps shall grace the day; 
 
 But nobler deeds than ere were thought, 
 Shall give Ambition's footsteps way. 
 
 To bless the needy in that hour 
 
 Not earthly treasure shall be given; 
 
 I'll help him with an angel's power, 
 
 And yield a blessing, spared from heaven.
 
 BESSEY. 
 
 1 AGAIN, again that thrilling strain ! 
 Voice of the Past, thine accents chain 
 
 Time's alter' d, onward track; 
 Lost hours are swelling round my heart, 
 And bid it feel in every part 
 The tide of days roll'd back. 
 
 It is thy song, thy very note, 
 Familiar as thine own dear face ; 
 
 Around me now those accents float 
 As by our own hearth's resting-place. 
 
 It cannot be that years have gone, 
 
 Since tones so fresh to thought were given; 
 
 A day is all, a single one, 
 Oh ! 'tis the song of yester-even. 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 And there comes in thy voice of glee, 
 Sweet Bessey, joined in harmony, 
 
 My Nella's strain to fill ; 
 Oh ! how familiar is that tone, 
 Clear, gay, untired, 'tis all thine own, 
 
 Thine, laughing Bessey, still. 
 
 Oh ! stop not ; thou dost break a dream, 
 That once was Truth, and still can bring 
 
 Such lively thoughts, as well may seem 
 More true than any living thing. 
 
 But 'tis a dream between us stand 
 Absence and death, and grief and time; 
 
 I see again the spectral band, 
 As sinks away that magic chime. 
 
 Ah ! well, sweet Bessey, thou didst sleep, 
 While bright with Life's first rays thine eye; 
 
 Ere weariness its light could steep, 
 It clos'd, with all its brilliancy.
 
 53 
 
 I saw thee, and thy face, though wan, 
 Still smil'd that plaited coif beneath; 
 
 As though Life's stream had sparkled on, 
 E'en till the very touch of Death. 
 
 I gazed until I dream' d there came 
 Again Life's quick delicious flame 
 
 Through all thy pulses led ; 
 And though too soon the fancy wan'd, 
 I did not touch thy frozen hand, 
 
 I would not feel thee dead. 
 
 But years have taught, all silent grown, 
 No more to listen for thy tone, 
 
 Or turn thy form to see ; 
 I do not, save when that old strain 
 Comes hack and brings thy voice again, 
 
 Thy very voice to me.
 
 BE SSE Y. 
 
 'Tis many a year since yonder grave, 
 On which the fresh herbs flourish now, 
 
 Heap'd on each side its sods, and gave 
 View of the narrow house below. 
 
 'Twas dug as fresh a form to hold 
 
 As flow'rs new-gather' d, which are laid 
 
 In beauty on some marble cold, 
 And smile in death before they fade. 
 
 Then wet was many an eye for her; 
 
 In many a breast her image slept; 
 But Time, and thoughts more fresh and near, 
 
 With dimming hand those lines have swept.
 
 55 
 
 And now, alas ! to me alone 
 The silent letters on the stone 
 
 Recall the fairy frame, 
 The radiant bloom, the laughing wile, 
 The sweeter spirit of her smile, 
 
 Once bound with Bessey's name. 
 
 I know I should not weep thee now, 
 Thy place is fill'd, thy home possess'd; 
 
 Time smooths the void, dear Maid, which thou 
 Departing, mad'st in many a breast. 
 
 And yet when day and toil are done, 
 And thought releas'd from present care 
 
 Reviews the steps that Life has run, 
 
 Thro' all the things and times that were, 
 
 I sit upon the church-yard wall, 
 Thy Tomb, oh Bessey, in my ken; 
 
 And start to feel the tear-drops fall 
 
 Which thoughts unworded, gather then.
 
 INVITATION 
 
 AFTER PULLING DOWN AND REBUILDING A HOUSE. 
 
 OLD Ghosts, ye all are dispossess' d, 
 Your former house is levell'd now; 
 
 Another house at my behest 
 Has lifted over yours, its hrow. 
 
 But flit, old Ghosts, and live with me; 
 
 As yet we are but living hosts ; 
 But watch the new house patiently, 
 
 You soon shall have companion Ghosts.
 
 WE TWO HAVE SATE AND SUNG TOGETHER. 
 
 WE two have sate and sung together 
 
 Full oft that old familiar strain; 
 Ah, Friend ! who now shall tell us whether 
 
 We e'er shall do the like again! 
 
 My voice is faint, and dim mine eyes, 
 And heavy comes my oft- drawn breath; 
 
 And every day that onward flies, 
 
 Says plainer than the last, 'tis death. 
 
 Oh! when again two voices try 
 
 That strain, not ours the notes shall be; 
 
 Thou wilt not sing it then, and / 
 Shall sleep unheeding e'en of thee.
 
 58 
 
 The thought of me will cross thee then, 
 Where' er thou art, whate'er thy doom; 
 
 And from the hum of living men, 
 Invite thy Spirit to the Tomh. 
 
 There wilt thou see, while crowds rejoice, 
 My prostrate form, remote and still; 
 
 And mark, 'mid many a living voice, 
 The silence of the Grave I fill. 
 
 
 
 I would that moment I might be 
 
 A sun-beam on thine eye to start; 
 I 
 Or with as bright a witchery, 
 
 A cheerful thought to cross thy heart. 
 
 Mourn not, Beloved think I pass'd 
 Before my soul's first virtue died; 
 
 That from the world remotely cast, 
 I fell not, for I was not tried.
 
 59 
 
 And in me youthful still, survived 
 
 The peace, the truth, my Maker gave; 
 
 They might have withered, had I hVd, 
 But grew immortal on my grave. 
 
 Ah! then, my friend, whene'er the day 
 Shall bring this strain, and I am not; 
 
 My early death shall he the ray, 
 The cheerful thought, my humble lot.
 
 THE LADY.* 
 
 THERE was an ancient dwelling-place, 
 
 The home of English Squires; 
 An ancient Lady dwelt therein, 
 
 She had it from her Sires. 
 
 Her purse was fill'd with gold I trow, 
 Her house with household store; 
 
 And when the neighbours' pelf wax' d low, 
 They came to her for more. 
 
 She gave her gold she sought the sick, 
 
 And ask'd them of their harm; 
 Forth walking with her Bible-book, 
 
 Her basket on her arm. 
 
 * This ballad has been set to music by the Chevalier Neu- 
 komm, under the title of " The Old English Lady."
 
 61 
 
 She lov'd them all, and they lov'd her 
 
 With good old loyalty; 
 And when she wax'd so faint and old, 
 
 They griev'd that she must die. 
 
 "Alack!" they cried, "we'll pray for her, 
 
 That she may come about; 
 She's been a friend for fifty years, 
 
 We cannot do without." 
 
 But yet the good old Lady died, 
 
 And woe was all her land; 
 They put the shroud about her face, 
 
 And rosemary in her hand. 
 
 They plac'd her in her own old hall, 
 
 The Servants stood around; 
 The Church-bells, as they bore her forth, 
 
 Toll'd out a heavy sound.
 
 62 
 
 Old folks and young were come to see,- 
 Of tears there was no lack; 
 
 The Tenants walk'd behind in pairs, 
 Each in a suit of black. 
 
 They laid her in her father's vault, 
 
 'Mid coffins many a one; 
 The Parson said his holy words, 
 
 And they made fast the stone. 
 
 That stone will never more be rais'd, 
 Now she has got her place; 
 
 That childless Lady was the last 
 Of her old name and race. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LATCH AND LA}! PERT, PAINTERS, GBOVE FLACK, BKOXPfON.
 
 I WATCHED THE HEAVENS.
 
 JUST PUBLISHED, 
 SECOND EDITION, WITH SOME ADDITIONS, 
 
 IX POEMS BY V. 
 
 " Of IX Poems by V, we emphatically say, in old Greek, B<uu /ut 
 aXXa POAA. It is an Ennead to which every Muse may have contri- 
 buted her Ninth. The stanzas printed by us in Italics are, in our 
 judgment, worthy of any one of our greatest poets in his happiest 
 moments." Quarterly Renew, Sept. 1840.
 
 I WATCHED THE HEAVENS 
 
 A POEM 
 
 BY V. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "IX POEMS.' 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SAUNDERS & OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 1842.
 
 I WATCH'D THE HEAVENS. 
 
 i, 
 
 I WATCH'D the heav'ns above me, and a star 
 Appear'd before my meditative eyes ; 
 
 I mark'd the solitary beam afar 
 
 Pursue its journey in th' eternal skies. 
 
 Calm from its distant glory, came the rays 
 
 Through all of space between us, on my gaze; 
 
 No other sign of those who dwelt therein 
 
 Fell on my sense, except that beam serene ; 
 
 And fancy, soothed beneath the streaming light, 
 Pursued the orb along its high career, 
 B
 
 And deem'd it some new world, all fresh and bright 
 With its ten thousand hopes, and not one fear. 
 
 ii. 
 There did I land, upborne on wondrous wing, 
 
 On whose strong pinion the freed spirit flies ; 
 And mark'd around in many a beauteous thing, 
 
 How, like our earth, it might be paradise. 
 Serene and sweet the lovely landscape lay 
 Outstretch'd beneath a summer's glancing ray ; 
 And from blue skies a fost'ring sun like ours, 
 Swell'd in the fruits, and glitter'd in the flow'rs. 
 Above, the silent mountains stood on high, 
 Their outline graved distinct along the sky ; 
 And forests stretch'd their undulating wreath, 
 Above the vales that smiling slept beneath ; 
 Wliile far away, the breath of fresh perfume 
 
 Pass'd on the breeze which rose from western 
 
 caves, 
 And o'er the glow of summer's form and bloom, 
 
 Calm ocean's voice came up from slowly moving 
 waves.
 
 3 
 
 in. 
 Man's mind, if tuned harmonious to the scene, 
 
 Might here have felt its glory all expand ; 
 Reason, and joy, and feeling, would have been 
 
 Call'd forth and echo'd in that lovely land. 
 Here dwelt that spell upon the mountain's brow, 
 Which calls to life the bosom's generous glow ; 
 Here smiled that spirit on the mirror lake, 
 From which our feelings holy calmness take ; 
 And breeze, and bloom, and change of night and 
 day, 
 
 Held commune with the soul's more noble part ; 
 And fain would lead it, on its destined way, 
 
 All dignified the mind, all calm and good the 
 heart. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " O Thou, whose ample page, if read aright, 
 Stirs the immortal in the mortal's breast, 
 
 If here there dwell a race not fallen quite, 
 They are already, or they may be bless'd ;
 
 For thou hast lov'd this new-found Globe to dress, 
 And make it fit for Eden happiness ; 
 And if its dwellers like itself be pure, 
 
 Glory and Peace will mantle o'er their doom ; 
 Man here might see his promised hope secure 
 
 This is, perchance, the shore whose ocean is the 
 
 tomb." 
 
 v. 
 
 While thus I ponder'd, onward came a form, 
 
 Unlike the dream which flatter'd Fancy's sight, 
 Man's shape he wore, but some internal storm 
 
 Defaced the image, and put out its light. 
 His inward spirit seem'd by thoughts o'ercast 
 Whose shadow o'er his visage darkly pass'd, 
 And to his eye that lovely land was dim, 
 Suggesting nought of peace or joy to him 
 He heard no accent in the wind, and flood, 
 
 The landscape had no meanings for his eye, 
 In vain before him in their joy they stood, 
 
 For joy's responding sources in his heart were 
 dry.
 
 VI. 
 
 " Being ! what art thou ?" I exclaim'd, and gazed 
 
 In wonder on his stricken form and face ; 
 On me his haggard eyes he slowly raised, 
 
 And paused a few short moments in his place. 
 I know not what of deadly pain there came 
 In gradual current through his shaken frame, 
 But while he mark'd me, old Remembrance seem'd 
 
 To pass before him with its phantom crew, 
 Like one who fainting on the rock has dream'd 
 
 Of childhood's scenes, which crowd his thoughts 
 
 anew, 
 
 Forgot through guilty years but oh, how dear and 
 true ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 "And what art thou?" he answer'dme. "Canst thou, 
 A mortal, stand still mortal on this shore ? 
 
 Back, back to earth, man's happiest dream to know 
 Dream thou shalt die Death comes to us no 
 more !"
 
 With that he toss'd his weary arms on high, 
 And look'd despairing at the sunny sky, 
 While cold dews rose upon his ashy brow, 
 
 Wrung fiercely from his inward agony, 
 As though he felt the curse upon him now, 
 
 The everlasting doom, the fix'd command, to be. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Death comes not here ?" I cried ; " O spirit, say, 
 
 Why dwells then on thy face that print of pain ; 
 This land seems one where joyful souls might stray, 
 
 And find their home, their native heav'n again." 
 Darkly he answer'd " Ay, if place could make 
 
 That joy wherein the soul aspires to dwell ; 
 The land, the land, perchance, such thoughts may 
 wake 
 
 Ay, allnround is heaven, but here within is hell." 
 
 IX. 
 
 So saying, on the ground his form he threw, 
 And gnash'd the herbs around him in his woe,
 
 Then his clench'd hand towards the skies he threw, 
 
 And gibber'd words like hate, but short and low, 
 Forced through closed teeth, as though his inward pain 
 Sought something to accuse, and sought in vain. 
 At length his eyes upon my face he turn'd, 
 Where fire, like tomb-lamps lit by sorrow, burn'd, 
 And bade me forward " Go, and see beyond, 
 The fallen spirits, and the scene they suit 
 God to their guidance leaves the outcast land, 
 Sin works its will uncheck'd go see its gracious 
 fruit !" 
 
 x. 
 
 I wander'd onward, stricken with his word, 
 
 And look'd for some new form as dread as this ; 
 
 But yet no sound of voice or step was heard, 
 And nature smiled in her untroubled bliss. 
 
 Deep quiet vistas of green wood uprose, 
 
 And flow'rs beneath illumined their repose ; 
 
 When sunbeams piercing through the quiv'ring 
 shade, 
 
 Shot changeful brightness up the summer glade.
 
 8 
 
 At length, where hung above the flood, a tree, 
 I saw a shape, sit tranquil as the scene ; 
 
 And deem'd the sentence not for him, and he 
 Was there rejoicing, and rejoiced by Nature's 
 mien. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But as I gazed, a horror o'er me came, 
 
 Like one who enters in a gloomy place, 
 And there, with doubtful eyes and startled frame, 
 
 Sees from the darkness grow a form and face. 
 Changed was that face, and dim the look it 
 
 wore, 
 
 Yet still it was the same I knew of yore ; 
 But, oh ! how alter'd from that happier day, 
 When mind shone through it with its fiery ray ! 
 Keen, joyous, then and in those hours of earth, 
 
 Whate'er he touch'd became a brighter thing ; 
 E'en vice, when he would wreathe it, in his mirth, 
 
 Grew fair beneath the flowers which o'er it he 
 would fling.
 
 XII. 
 
 Stilly he sat, but on his hueless cheek 
 
 'T\vas no elysian peace that fix'd its reign, 
 But brooding stillness, whose dark shadows speak 
 
 Of reason lost in a benighted brain. 
 And that quick eye, which, glittering once with wit, 
 Mark'd and adorn'd each form that courted it, 
 Now heavily was fix'd on one lone spot, 
 And even there beheld, but mark'd it not. 
 His lips had sunk asunder ; and the smile 
 
 That came like lightning seemed extinct for ever ; 
 His slacken 'd brow was blank of light the while, 
 
 Where glow'd his genius once, as though to 
 perish never. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I call'd him by his name he did not mark ; 
 
 His fame, it seem'd forgotten in his doom ; 
 Like the silk pennon on a sinking bark, 
 
 Or wither'd flow'rs upon a last-year's tomb. 
 Then from my memory, words of his I brought, 
 Wherein he once had cloth'd a splendid thought,
 
 10 
 
 And he look'd up as though the pausing dart 
 Which press'd before, now enter'd in his heart. 
 " Gone gone !" he cried, and one expiring ray 
 Of mind return'd, to shew how thick the night, 
 
 Then vanish'd in the gath'ring clouds away, 
 Like storms dispersed a moment ere they quench 
 the light. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Art thou so fallen ?" I exclaim'd " What, thou 't 
 
 Earth-worshipp'd man, our glory, and our grace, 
 Where is the wreath which twines thy statue's brow ': 
 
 Where is th' Elysium which we deem'd thy 
 
 place ?" 
 
 " Thou speakest language of a world gone by," 
 Slowly he answered "lowest, last am I." 
 And while he spoke, I thought of time behind, 
 
 When once beside a dotard's seat he stood, 
 Mocking the dull face, in his pride of mind 
 
 Then, how unlike his own ! how near his present 
 mood !
 
 11 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Yet, once," I answer'd, " words were not so fleet, 
 But thou hadst caught their sense before 'twas said ; 
 Things dark to others thou wouldst half-way meet, 
 And turn them all to daylight 'mid the shade." 
 " Am I as then ?" he answer'd. " Then I was 
 Happy/' He spoke, and dismal was the pause ; 
 Then round he gazed on the delicious land 
 
 But to his eyes, alas ! 'twas dull and void 
 And murmur'd, stretching forth each empty hand, 
 
 " I feel existence only, which I once enjoy'd." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " This is thy penance, then," I cried; but he, 
 
 In such dull accents as before, replied 
 " Ay, call it penance, if such name may be 
 
 To things by nature join'd in one, applied. 
 Ay, penance, for I might have been as high 
 As Joy can lead a dweller of the sky, 
 If passions brought from earth had not decay'd 
 This subtle frame, for Jov and Virtue made ;
 
 12 
 
 But they have bow'd and rent it, till behold 
 
 The hopeless, helpless wretch that I am grown ; 
 
 Earth was the place to check them or unfold 
 Cruel as true thy word, my penance is my 
 own." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Pitying I heard; but while mine ear I bent, 
 
 Arose a cry that spoke the extreme of ill, 
 Prolong'd by passion when the breath was spent, 
 
 Renew'd again ere one might say 'tis still. 
 And, oh, what mingled dread was surging thence ! 
 Fear, fury's yell, and agony intense; 
 And of some deed, some sight, the story told, 
 I dared not think on, yet must fain behold ; 
 And, rushing headlong toward the sounding place, 
 
 Through bush and brake I strove to force my 
 
 way, 
 As one who would behold a murder'd face 
 
 Tears off the pall in haste, too fearful to de- 
 lay.
 
 13 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And there oh Heaven ! oh Heaven ! that fearful 
 sight ! 
 
 Man, what a fiend, when turned to ill, art Thou ! 
 What aspects human eyes and thoughts to blight, 
 Tortured and torturer, met my glances now I 
 For both uprose before me both, too, wore 
 Man's form, and yet a human form no more ; 
 But shaped by inner thoughts, till they were grown 
 Things that the mortal eye ne'er look'd upon. 
 One fasten'd to a stake was writhing there, 
 
 With hell's own aspect on his form and face, 
 And round, the inflictors stood, on whom Despair 
 
 Was written with another, but an equal trace. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Where are the burning words that paint the pains 
 By spirits on their fellow-spirits wrought ? 
 
 Things which earth's tyrant racks and dungeon 
 
 chains 
 But shadow forth, as speech interprets thought.
 
 14 
 
 Not human pain was there, for that can slay, 
 And from the man divide the suffering clay ; 
 But pangs that press'd on naked mind their 
 
 smart, 
 
 And lived with life in each immortal part ; 
 Such as inflame on earth, the torturer's will 
 
 The eager will which leaves his pow'r behind ; 
 The will, the power, in hell are present still, 
 
 But that wherewith, whereon, they work is 
 Mind. 
 
 In vain I strive to paint the how the why ; 
 
 Earth has no words to fix th' unearthly thing 
 The outer signs they wrung from Misery, 
 
 The tone, the look, the act, are all I sing ; 
 And, oh ! how howl'd upon the ethers sleep 
 The load of shrieks from that unceasing lip ; 
 How flash'd the light that elsewhere slept serene, 
 In horrid lightning from that frantic mien I 
 Passion's extremest utterance, mingled wild
 
 15 
 
 With pain, a load of wrong and rage to wreak ; 
 At times, the inflicting host his voice reviled 
 
 In words which might have ruin'd worlds to 
 
 speak 
 
 At times himself he wail'd in that blaspheming 
 shriek. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Around, not less demoniac, shew'd the crew, 
 
 Tossing and wild, like some tempestuous wave ; 
 Each with fresh torture heap'd his pain anew, 
 
 And bitter speech increased the pang they gave. 
 Unknown to them satiety of pain 
 Unknown Remorse, which, waking not in vain 
 On earth, amid her worst and fiercest band, 
 Holds from the last excess the shrinking hand ; 
 But these no sympathizing feelings knew, 
 
 By which man makes the cause of man his own ; 
 No saving influence the hand withdrew, 
 
 Where all alike had pow'r, and pity dwelt with 
 none.
 
 16 
 
 XXII. 
 
 All who from him had suffer'd wrong were there, 
 
 Whose souls, debased, for vengeance thirsted 
 
 still ; 
 All he compell'd on earth his yoke to bear, 
 
 By fortune slaves, but tyrants by their will. 
 Nor were earth's debts alone to be defray'd 
 
 He lived in hell the tyrant he had died ; 
 And spirits here the recent wrong repaid 
 
 With eager haste upon his conquer'd head. 
 " Remember earth remember hell !" they said ; 
 
 " This, for the long pass'd, long remember'd 
 
 wrong ; 
 And this, for yesterday's still burning deed, 
 
 For which we thank our fate thou hast not 
 waited long." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 With wild demoniac laugh they urged their glee, 
 For frighted look'd they with their own success, 
 
 Like one who, murd'ring his M'orst enemy, 
 
 Grows mad with his loud cry and struggling face.
 
 17 
 
 And he, their victim, shriek'd, till all among 
 The vales and hills one voice of torment rung ; 
 And ghastly shapes came forth in living swarms, 
 Peopling the sunny rocks with dismal forms, 
 And mark'd the madd'ning scene, till some flung high 
 Their tossing arms, and join'd the frantic cry, 
 And some approach'd with staring eyes, as though 
 To harden hearts, not yet quite hard to woe ; 
 And some affrighted, fled with speed, that fain 
 
 Would find a refuge 'gainst the direful crew; 
 And crazed with fear, came full in sight again, 
 
 Then strain'd their weary limbs, and, shrieking, 
 fled anew. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 I heard I saw the deepening horror rpll, 
 Increasing ever as the moments fled ; 
 
 Till like some lengthen'd storm it mazed the soul, 
 And, like a mist, was fear around them spread. 
 
 I saw not individual crime or woe, 
 
 A troubled sea, it raged and burst below, 
 c
 
 18 
 
 Till, like the taper shining on the shore, 
 
 Which shews the storm-toss'd bark its port once 
 
 more, 
 
 A form across the raving people press'd, 
 Whose heart one human feeling still possess'd: 
 I saw him stoop and loose the wretches' chain, 
 
 And they, it may be, tired, allow 'd the deed 
 " We meet as erst on earth," he said; " Again, 
 
 Old comrade, will I aid thy hour of need." 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Released, he fled at once yet turn'd to shout 
 
 A yell of rage that sank to agony ; 
 And from their gather'd ranks a cry rang out 
 
 Of mockery, bitter as the fiends' could be. 
 But faster fled he Fear was stronger then 
 
 Than even Vengeance, hot in every vein ; 
 And with a watchful eye, I turn'd to mark 
 
 How, refuge 'gainst his fellow-kind to gain, 
 He sought the waving forest cool and dark, 
 
 While o'er him bent the tree alleviating his pain.
 
 19 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Intent to bring relief,more near I drew ; 
 
 But, starting, fearful, when my words began, 
 He dragg'd his limbs o'er earth in flight anew, 
 
 Like some crush'd serpent at the sight of man. 
 In vain I sought to re-assure his dread 
 In vain to quench it by some kindly deed 
 Wing'd by his fear, his quiv'ring frame he sped, 
 And Fear became more fearful as he fled ; 
 Till 'neath the roots of an o'erhanging tree, 
 
 Which from the bank a little space was set, 
 Groaning, he crawl' d, and turn'd to gaze on me, 
 
 Coil'd in his narrow nook, and glaring Fear 
 and Hate. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I left him, hopelessly, and wandered on, 
 
 All doleful sounds, all dreary sights among, 
 
 And e'en where Heaven's light best and brightest 
 
 shone, 
 Methought the night of mind most darkly hung.
 
 20 
 
 Some sat in the sun's rays, and mark'd it rise 
 Along its daily pathway of the skies, 
 With vacant eye, which knew to them 'twould be 
 The same one hour through all eternity. 
 Some built such fabrics as on earth express 
 
 Man's pomp or pride, and when aloft they 
 
 grew, 
 Smote them to dust again for weariness, 
 
 And then for weariness began their work anew. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 There toil'd in the vain labour many an one, 
 
 Whose wishes linger'd in the world behind, 
 Coil'd round the things and creatures that were 
 
 gone 
 
 The haunting phantoms of his cumber'd mind. 
 There stood the man, whose transitory pleasure 
 Had been Earth's glittering joys, or golden trea- 
 sure ; 
 
 And who revived, amid a world destroy'd, 
 To live when all was dead that he enjoy 'd.
 
 21 
 
 Amazed with objects which had met his eye 
 When re-awaking, he arose from death; 
 
 He turn'd to look for earth, and saw it lie 
 
 Expiring in its flames, with all he loved be- 
 neath. 
 
 xxix. 
 
 Not far apart, the Conqueror, who had fought 
 
 To make himself a name, stood nameless by ; 
 One spot of earth had been the prize he sought, 
 
 Whose whole orb now had faded from the 
 
 sky ; 
 
 And round thro' that Existence infinite 
 He, restless, turn'd his ever-wand'ring sight, 
 Gazing through worlds which shone with countless 
 
 flame, 
 
 For that within whose bound he left his fame ; 
 But none that Fame remember'd, and he grew 
 
 A vacant wand'rer, past remembrance riven ; 
 Save when some giber of the demon crew 
 
 Mock'd at the homage he on earth had given.
 
 22 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Beyond these, some had tried to bring anew 
 
 Time's pleasures into vast eternity ; 
 The sound of music round the circle flew, 
 
 And forms went flitting to its melody. 
 But seem'd it, as if one who watch'd the bed 
 Where all he loved the best, in death was laid, 
 Should rise, and in the dead one's presence play 
 The idle games that pleased him yesterday. 
 For strange the eyes I mark'd among the group, 
 
 And haggard pale the cheeks, and slack the mien, 
 While to these sports unconscious did they stoop, 
 
 Pond'ring far other thoughts meantime within. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And one by one they stopp'd, as though the heart 
 Fail'd at the endless echo of the strain ; 
 
 Gazed in each other's face and turn'd apart, 
 Or sat them down, as ne'er to rise again. 
 
 And smile or laugh was not ; for they who yet 
 
 Moved to the music did it as a debt,
 
 23 
 
 And seem'd to feel it was a pain to be, 
 
 The pain of vacant immortality ; 
 
 Till all, at last, were still ; and then the sound 
 
 Of that gay, grievous strain, was heard the more, 
 Recurring still with its perpetual round, 
 
 Dead language of Delight, whose life was o'er. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Methought that there were none more lost to God 
 
 Than souls on former pleasures so employ 'd, 
 Who, with all Heaven appointed their abode, 
 
 Clung to the shadows of a world destroy'd. 
 And when I saw Mind's vast capacity 
 Wheel lagging round a little point, and be 
 A burden to itself from day to day, 
 
 I bow'd lamenting, o'er their former pride, 
 As when the Magian swept a world away, 
 
 Over its ruin'd beauty, spirits sigh'd.* 
 
 * Weh! Weh! 
 Du hast sie zerstort, 
 Die schone welt, &c FAUST.
 
 24 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Soul-struck, I turn'd away ; and from the throng 
 
 Went musing on, while still the weary strain 
 Came with its joyless melody along, 
 
 Repeating in my ear its antic pain. 
 And some I saw, who cast them down, and laid, 
 Hearing the sound, in their clench'd hand, their head, 
 As though they could not brook that earthly voice, 
 Which once they answered when it said, Rejoice. 
 And some, in quicker ecstasy of woe, 
 
 Cried out aloud, and toss'd them at the tone, 
 As though life's pain again were running through 
 
 A form by Torture almost turn'd to stone. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 But now I left behind those sounds of wail, 
 
 And follow 'd where grey rocks on either side 
 Rose up aloft above a narrow vale, 
 
 And in the sun's light bathed their brows of pride. 
 But all below was shadow'd, and so still, 
 I heard the long grass move upon the hill.
 
 25 
 
 Here hell was silent, and it seem'd almost 
 
 The inward fire might lave itself to rest, 
 If one could stand alone, of that wild host, 
 
 Mid the grave calmness of the mountain's breast. 
 And to them, truly, it had seem'd a place 
 
 Where Quiet still might find one sacred spot ; 
 For, as I turn'd a vast rock's jutting base 
 
 A scene before me lay which I have not forgot. 
 
 xxxv. 
 Tall Cypress trees had rear'd themselves on high, 
 
 About a mountain's foot that clos'd the view ; 
 And resting in its bed, a lake lay by, 
 
 Repeating point and line, precise and true. 
 No breeze disturb'd it in its deep serene ; 
 No moving thing reflected life therein ; 
 A changeless copy of the scene it lent, 
 
 Which rose above it motionless ; its face 
 In the mysterious mirror downward bent, 
 
 Fix'd, yet unreal, like the forms in Memory's 
 glass.
 
 OR 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And there, between the water and the trees, 
 
 The spirits had erected tombs, like those 
 Which Earth in every tranquil churchyard sees, 
 
 Yielding to sad and gay the same repose. 
 To me, too, seem'd they quiet ; for my mind 
 Had with such outer, inner calm combin'd ; 
 And I believed that in this place of rest, 
 
 The sentence of the spirit was unbound ; 
 And gazed upon each hillock's awful breast, 
 
 Where mind, annihilation's peace had found. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But while I gazed, from the vault's hollow cave 
 
 Crawl'd shapes, still animate with living breath, 
 As comes the unquiet worm from out the grave, 
 
 Where, living, dwells he in the house of death ; 
 Clothed in the garments of the dead were they, 
 The shroud and cerement of corrupting clay ; 
 And from our own earth's vault and sepulchre, 
 Whatever told of death they copied there.
 
 27 
 
 With vain desire they long'd aside to fling 
 Their new-born weight of immortality, 
 
 And yearning tVard earth's last and lowest thing, 
 Made all their aim and purpose, not to be. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But there they sat on the grave's edge, and sigh'd, 
 
 And saw the scene around with sleepless eye, 
 That roved unquiet o'er the breathless tide, 
 
 Or vvander'd upward through the sunny sky ; 
 Then turn'd again toward the narrow tomb, 
 Till grew another hope from out the gloom ; 
 And rising, with the death-clothes round them,press'd 
 The heavy foldings, corpse-like, on their breast ; 
 And once again descending, laid them there, 
 Extended still, and straight upon the bier. 
 But rest they could not ; and the quiv'ring lid 
 
 Struggled and open'd from the eye once more ; 
 And, forc'd again to leave death's mimic bed, 
 
 They rose, and left the grave all deathless as be- 
 fore.
 
 28 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 One, more than all, hung clingingly on death, 
 
 And longest lay in copy of his form ; 
 Nor seem'd to quit the shadowy place beneath, 
 
 Till driven to motion by his bosom's storm. 
 Then, as an exile meets a stranger's land, 
 He turn'd to life, from whose detested strand 
 He gazed upon the tornb with such despair, 
 
 Such yearning wishes in his look confess'd, 
 As though he said, " My spirit's home is there 
 
 My country ! wherefore dost thou spurn me from 
 thy breast ?" 
 
 XL. 
 
 Then, on a stone he sat him down, beside 
 
 The water, where it join'd the margin sand ; 
 And on the shore, left arid by the tide, 
 
 He shaped out letters with a slender wand. 
 I drew toward him, asking why he mourn'd ? 
 And he his wither'd face upon me turn'd, 
 And answer'd, (pointing to the sand below, 
 With sorrow's languid hand,) " There lies my woe."
 
 29 
 
 I look'd, and saw the many lines he made, 
 Varied in every form, yet still the same ; 
 
 For there his thoughts their lone impression laid, 
 And in a thousand characters had traced one name. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " Tharia" and " Tharia," written on the ground, 
 
 Met him where'er below he turn'd his sight ; 
 To him, perchance, the name was magic-bound, 
 
 And told a form all love, an eye all light. 
 But nought I saw, except the writer's hand 
 That stamp'd a female name upon the sand ; 
 And ask/d him whom and what those letters brought, 
 
 With faithful symbol, back on memory? 
 And where was pass'd the being of his thought, 
 
 That thus he mourn'd her in eternity ? 
 
 XJ.II. 
 
 < No more with me !" he said ; " the grave received 
 That form from out my arms, whose shafle will be 
 
 \Yith life's whole texture ever interweaved, 
 Though life now spreads to immortality.
 
 30 
 
 Here lies her image, like the corpse of one 
 From whom the friend, the soul, the self is gone ; 
 A lamp, in a deserted house, that burns, 
 Lit by a hand that never more returns. 
 That face of placid quiet, is not her's 
 
 Whom every change of mine erewhile could move ; 
 That eye no longer at my presence stirs, 
 
 Which was the mirror to my joy, my grief, my 
 love." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " How parted ye?" I ask'd : " What fate severe 
 
 Forbade to both one common destiny ? 
 Alas ! if thou aspiredst not with her, 
 
 How 'scap'd the thing belov'd, to sink with 
 
 thee ?" 
 
 " No, no!" he answer'd ; "she with purer eyes, 
 Look'd through earth's gladness to the gladder 
 
 skies; 
 
 A bird, that resting in a mid-way land, 
 Loves that, but better loves the home beyond I
 
 31 
 
 Gladly she went ; although her eyes' last ray 
 Linger'd, and call'd me through the shadows 
 dim ; 
 
 But from myself I cast that hope away, 
 
 Forgetting God in grief, and losing all with him. 
 
 XL1V. 
 
 I thought of her alone on earth ; of her 
 
 Alone, beyond the bounds of earth and time ; 
 All other objects were forgot that stir 
 
 The spirit to a strife for scenes sublime. 
 Earth was a desert, death was her abode 
 I thought not how the life beyond it glow'd ; 
 Few flitting years were doom'd our hearts to 
 
 sever 
 
 But I have changed the parting to For Ever. 
 For fondly to the grave I turn'd, and there 
 
 Believed was meeting, and my soul's relief; 
 Or hoped, at least, to die to my despair, 
 
 And did the murmurer's act, the suicide of 
 grief.
 
 XLV. 
 
 " But oh, we met not ! 'tis not death that 
 
 brings 
 
 The hearts together whom his hands divide ; 
 Beyond his empire rose immortal things, 
 
 Which, madman-like, I laid my thoughts 
 
 aside ; 
 
 Truth, Glory, Goodness, and the Spirit's strength, 
 Wrought out from all earth's trial-woes, at length, 
 Alone, are dwellers of that happier clime, 
 Where she rejoices in her fate sublime ; 
 I saw her, and the grief which o'er her threw, 
 Beholding what I was, its mortal hue, 
 Clear'd cloud-like from her face, as, new and 
 
 bright, 
 
 Heaven shed on her accepted soul its light. 
 And then for ever parted, e'en in thought, 
 
 She entered with no backward look, her rest, 
 Unseen her place, my place by her unsought, 
 
 We never meet again ; and she by that is 
 
 bless'd."
 
 33 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " Had she been like thee, thou wert happy then ? 
 
 Together ye had dwelt, and that were bliss ?" 
 Thus eagerly I questioned him, to win 
 
 His answer to an anxious thought like this. 
 " Ay, perfect bliss !" he cried ; yet while he said, 
 Like one by self denied, he sank his head ; 
 Andglanc'dtowardaneighbouring tomb, where leant 
 Two figures on the uprear'd monument. 
 One was their Fate ; one World, one ceaseless Life ; 
 
 United, earth-like, save with closer doom ; 
 Yet worn they look'd, as with the spirit's strife, 
 
 And chose, as emblem of their wish, a tomb. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Silent they sate upon the vaulted den 
 
 Which other bands, in other days, had rear'd ; 
 
 And which the first indwellers quitted, when 
 The hope for which they built it, disappear'd. 
 D
 
 34 
 
 Their hands were join'd, it seem'd, because, of old, 
 It was their wont each other's hands to fold ; 
 Their eyes no more were t'ward each other raised, 
 Or conscious that fond looks upon them gazed ; 
 But various and apart, as though the thought 
 Of either heart, no common centre sought. 
 The woman's wander'd o'er the land serene, 
 
 Restless and seeking, and yet hopeless now ; 
 The man's were all unconscious of the scene, 
 
 Fix'd on one point, beneath his gather'd brow. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 I stood and gazed at distance, and it seem'd 
 
 As though their deathlessness on them too weigh'd ; 
 And love, which bright enough for earth had beam'd, 
 
 Here a faint insufficient twilight made. 
 The heart, enlarged by immortality, 
 
 Seem'd void of half that it had room to hold ; 
 An empty palace, bare to wind and sky, 
 
 Prepared for king-like pomp, but desert, worn, 
 and cold.
 
 35 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 I pass'd them slowly by ; perusing still 
 
 Their languid attitude and careless mien ; 
 But did not question ; for their spirit's ill 
 
 Enough in every look and line was seen. 
 He mark'd me not ; but she, with restless sight, 
 Caught on the wave my shadow o'er the light ; 
 Then smiled so new a face to see, and took 
 Her hand from his, yet turn'd again to look 
 It'stirr'd no jealous feeling at the deed, 
 
 Or if the stranger woke no sleeping pain ; 
 But no, he did but fold the arms she freed ; 
 
 Then sitting down she sigh'd, and sought his hand 
 again. 
 
 L. 
 
 I also sigh'd ; for she was fair and bright, 
 And might have been the angel she was not ; 
 
 Yet was her beauty day's decaying light, 
 And faintly told of radiance half forgot. 
 
 It was the wreck of feelings warm and high, 
 
 That hallow'd once, and honour'd still, her eye ;
 
 36 
 
 Feelings which, worthy to expand in heaven, 
 To things too mean had been too rashly given ; 
 Like lightning, which, if aim'd aright, would be 
 
 Life to an altar pile, to God upraised ; 
 But wasted on the cold unkindly sea, 
 
 Dies on the element whereon awhile it blazed. 
 
 LI. 
 Grieved at the fall of one so fair, I moved 
 
 With pensive step and heavy heart away ; 
 And forward through the place of tombs I roved, 
 
 Where'er the path invited me to stray. 
 Tenantless graves and unfill'd shrouds lay round, 
 Adding new horror to the barren ground ; 
 Those earthy beds had lost their tenants now, 
 
 And wore not e'en the image of repose ; 
 Forth in the world they had resolved to go, 
 
 To seek, though not to hope, some refuge from 
 
 their woes. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Here where most mournful, was the mournful place 
 Deserted, barren, hopeless, and accurst,
 
 37 
 
 Sate scatter'd far upon the tomb-grown grass, 
 Some who, mid all things drear, still sought the 
 
 worst ; 
 
 Erewhile on earth they bow'd 'neath sorrow's storm, 
 Sinking to dust their unelastic form ; 
 And if one joy from out their fate was reft, 
 Refused to see all comfort that was left. 
 E'en in the common pangs of human care 
 
 Themselves inflamed the wound that tore their 
 
 breast ; 
 And fond of anguish, jealous of despair, 
 
 They claim' d to be earth's mourners most op- 
 press'd. 
 
 LUI. 
 
 In this new world, from all that soothed they turn'd, 
 And e'en the straggling sunbeam shut from view; 
 
 Save where upon some barren rock it burn'd, 
 
 Where flowers grew not, nor rose the nurt'ring 
 dew. 
 
 They sate by arid sand, and tomb forlorn, 
 
 Dry stones by winter's current sear'd and worn,
 
 38 
 
 Where hands despairing, ere they came, had rent 
 Each green herb climbing o'er the monument. 
 For those who built them, sought a place which 
 
 shew'd 
 
 Congenial temper to a grieving mind ; 
 But these had chosen the forlorn abode, 
 
 To feed the sullen thoughts they fain would 
 make or find. 
 
 LIV. 
 Oh me ! they were so wretched ! The long flow 
 
 Of age on age had deepen'd their despair ; 
 The shadows which began on earth to grow, 
 
 Flung their unbounded shroud about them here. 
 Thick darkness darken'd more, as round them 
 
 flow'd 
 
 The ceaseless youth of this unbless'd abode, 
 Till grief became the food whereon they fed, 
 
 Th' essential substance of their very frame ; 
 Their soul's one thought, their spirit's needful 
 
 dread, 
 Their element of life, an ever-gnawing flame.
 
 39 
 
 LV. 
 
 Chill'd with their aspect, motionless and cold, 
 
 At little distance did I sit me down, 
 Like him a serpent's fascinations hold, 
 
 And fix'd my eyes upon the eyes of one. 
 Not by my pencil can the gloom be shewn 
 That o'er his awful lineaments was thrown 
 Drawn lips were there, all colourless and fix'd ; 
 Glassy, yet living eyes ; their ray unmix'd 
 With e'en a motion, that might speak within 
 The heart less frozen than the icy mien. 
 His was the shrunken limb, all still and drear, 
 
 The rigid hands that held the heavy brow ; 
 As though for years the soul had ceased to stir 
 
 The heart to hope, the frame to move, the 
 thoughts to flow. 
 
 LVI. 
 By slow degrees accustom'd to the sight, 
 
 I nearer drew and touch'd with awe his hand ; 
 Then bolder press'd it, that th' arousing might 
 
 Of outer things might break the spirit's band.
 
 40 
 
 He stirr'd at length ; his stony eyes rose slow, 
 And fix'd on mine their blank cold gaze of woe : 
 But wordless for a space, until at last 
 
 My boldness rais'd his spirit from its shroud, 
 Then o'er his face a brief fierce radiance pass'd, 
 
 As leaps the flame once more from some con- 
 sumed abode. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 " What dost thou, and what wilt thou, rude un- 
 known?" 
 
 Thus spoke a voice half buried in his breast ; 
 It seem'd the echo of a world long gone, 
 
 Which should have slept ere now, and been at 
 
 rest. 
 
 " What has thy asking face, thy idle bloom, 
 To do where nature shares the spirit's gloom ? 
 Hast thou not yet renounced the futile strife 
 
 Of those who think their early dreams are true ? 
 Earth might have shewn, since thou art cursed with 
 
 life, 
 That thou no more shalt cease the fatal gift to rue."
 
 41 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " Not yet," I cried, "has it been rued," for I 
 
 Who loved existence started at his word ; 
 " Sad should I be to feel life's fountain dry, 
 
 Which healthfully my bosom's pulse has stirr'd. 
 Some bitter waters I have drunk therein, 
 And on its surface early ice-flakes seen ; 
 Some forms, which once their dear reflection gave, 
 No more are imaged on the ruffled wave ; 
 And hues I saw there, 'neath the dawning sky, 
 Have melted as the noon-day hour drew nigh. 
 Yet as they vanish, other colours rise, 
 
 And paint the stream whose course I love to feel, 
 Fresh from its waves elastic pleasure flies, 
 
 And reason's calmer joys forth from the current 
 steal." 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Uprose that figure as I paused, and laugh'd ; 
 
 E'en such a sound might burst from forth the dead, 
 And on the watcher's soul dismay engraft, 
 
 Who kept his vigil by the sheeted bed.
 
 42 
 
 Still as the corpse was every muscle fix'd, 
 
 The cheeks blank whiteness, as before, unmix'd ; 
 
 That hollow laugh no human feeling spoke, 
 
 No smile, no sparkle mingled with the sound, 
 And 'mid the desert silence which it broke, 
 
 Rang the harsh voice, unnaturally round. 
 
 LX. 
 Rous'd at the accent, from full many a grave 
 
 Uprais'd the spectre-forms their doleful head ; 
 To mark what lip this troubled accent gave, 
 
 That broke the age-kept silence of their bed. 
 Their sunken eyes gleam'd out upon the day, 
 Like tapers dying in the solar ray ; 
 Their forms like wounded earth-worms heavy 
 
 weigh'd 
 
 In th' unaccustom'd effort that they made ; 
 And some fell back to where they lay before; 
 
 Others retain'd the change they had assumed, 
 And settling darkly in their thoughts of yore, 
 
 To every outer thing their senselessness re- 
 sumed.
 
 43 
 
 LXI. 
 
 A few around us came, dark ghosts and pale, 
 
 No beam of man or angel in their eye ; 
 And join'd their gaze to him who heard my tale, 
 
 And scarm'd me mockingly, I knew not why. 
 I to their gaze return'd such glance as came 
 Forth from the kindling soul's excited flame ; 
 For what had they to do with scorn and me ? 
 
 Forfeit in them the rights that still were mine ; 
 And they, lost spirits ! were no longer free 
 
 To seek the further bourne, where human grows 
 divine. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Pity I had for aught so lowly sunk ; 
 
 But pity brook'd not from these less than men. 
 Should they deride the heav'n whence they had 
 shrunk, 
 
 And mock the goal which they had fail'd to gain ? 
 Yet Anger melted, e'en as it had done. 
 Should madmen seek to teach some saner one ; 

 
 44 
 
 He patiently would hear them tell that light 
 No longer from the sun pour'd forth its ray ; 
 
 And having listen'd to their tale of night, 
 
 Go forth and take the sun to guide his onward 
 way. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " Young stranger," said the phantom, " Thou art he 
 
 Who, some have told in my regardless ear, 
 Art wafted from the realms of earth to be 
 
 A transient dweller in this distant sphere. 
 Still haunt thine eye those beams, illumed in vain, 
 Which, once extinguish'd, never light again ; 
 The beams of hope, which only childhood wears, 
 Quench'd ere our manhood by a thousand tears. 
 But thou art still upon the verge of life ; 
 
 Deceived full oft, but not enough deceived ; 
 And dream'st of days with better fortunes rife, 
 
 Ay, I too, once, in Hope, the shadow's shade, be- 
 lieved. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 '* Yon world upon me open'd bright and fair 
 Or seeming fair ; and with a painted brow
 
 45 
 
 Smiled on my trusting eye, as free from care, 
 And drew the mask before its inward woe. 
 
 Urged by the inborn impulse of my soul, 
 
 I sprang to joy, and drain'd the offer'd bowl ; 
 
 And yet that world, e'en while I drank delight, 
 
 Dropp'd poison in, the wine of life to blight. 
 
 It mimick'd Love, Joy, Friendship's, Beauty's glow, 
 Yet scarce the wine was sweet, all gall the lees; 
 
 The pleasure madden'd, and the after woe 
 
 Struck in my trusting heart its serpent agonies. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " I shared with one my thoughts, my heart, my home 
 
 He was my half of life my all of joy : 
 That friend deceived, ere long I was become 
 
 His fortune's tool his pleasure's barter'd toy. 
 I loved a form that shone upon my way, 
 As 'twere the guardian planet of my day. 
 I follow'd blindly on the luring beam, 
 
 Xor heeded where it led, nor whom it cross'd 
 Then when 'twas loveliest, the mocking dream 
 
 Dissolved in air ; and with it all was lost.
 
 46 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " Farewell, then, to the world ; I did not leave 
 
 My curse on that I scorn'd too much to hate : 
 But from my heart I loosed the ties that weave 
 
 A chain betwixt it and our human fate. 
 Bright creatures pass'd me, but I would not love, 
 Earth's woeful children, but they did not move ; 
 Men hoped and wept, desired, felt, labour'd, 
 
 thought ; 
 
 And I stood by and smiled at all they sought. 
 What had the heart they wrung to do with them ? 
 
 It once had answer'd every human cry ; 
 But taught by scorn the scorners to contemn, 
 
 1 turned my heart's dark side to every mortal 
 eye. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " So lived I all forgetting half forgot, 
 
 Wrapp'd in myself, a world that was mine own ; 
 
 Nor God nor man had eased my dreary lot, 
 And I could teach myself to live alone.
 
 47 
 
 So died I ay, my dog was couch'd beside, 
 
 And lick'd my hand ; I felt it as I died. 
 
 No human thing then feign'd the grief he felt ; 
 
 No eyes shed tears, I had but ill believed ; 
 I went, and left whom Promise still could melt, 
 To be lured on like me like me, too, unde- 
 ceived. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 " I have been lonely I am lonely still ; 
 
 I dug all tenderness from out my heart ; 
 There is no fibre of the smiling ill 
 
 To grow again, to torture, and depart. 
 I sit and muse, as I have mused before, 
 And darker grow the wrongs I ponder o'er. 
 More cursed the doom of the immortal soul, 
 More evil all the universal whole. 
 My powers of mind go forth, and learn de- 
 spair, 
 
 My powers of heart are dried. What oozes on 
 Was wont upon a dog to spend its care ; 
 
 It fastens now upon this rifted stone."
 
 48 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " Thy griefs are half thine own, mine all of Fate," 
 
 Another Phantom of the circle cried ; 
 I turn'd, and mark'd him, where deject he sate, 
 
 Contrasted with the former's gloom of pride. 
 Not altogether so defaced with woe 
 Was human glory on his pallid brow ; 
 Not so forlorn in self-made solitude, 
 Banish'd from God and man, appear'd his mood. 
 It rather seem'd the soul's elastic wing, 
 
 Form'd to grow strong on earth, expand in heaven, 
 Had suffer'd earthly storms to damp its spring, 
 
 And could not soar at last, relax'd, decay'd, and 
 riven. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " I ask'd not much," he said ; and milder flow'd 
 His words and tone, as though less sear'd his 
 heart ; 
 
 " My native land was all I knew of good, 
 My joy to dwell, my torture to depart.
 
 49 
 
 The scene, the speech, the visage, which had grown 
 First on my ear and heart stood there alone ; 
 Colours wherein my mind its forms had weaved, 
 And tones in which my thoughts were all con- 
 ceived. 
 O'er its loved crags and mountains did the air 
 
 Breathe more like life than other air to me ; 
 The very faults were dear which met me there, 
 
 They spoke the land of my nativity. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 " To wander freely o'er my native hills, 
 
 To talk with others in my native tongue, 
 To feel in her renown such worth, as steals 
 From the land's actions o'er her humblest 
 
 throng : 
 
 This was my boyish joy, my manhood's pride, 
 Ambition's utmost, yet was this denied. 
 Ah ! dark in Memory frowns the bitter day, 
 When from ray country I was forced away ; 
 E
 
 50 
 
 And still look'd back upon the lessening shore, 
 Which seem'd a cloud, a shadow on the sea ; 
 
 Yet held within its outline, thus obscure, 
 
 The cliffs, the streams, the home, life's life and 
 joy to me. 
 
 LXX1I. 
 
 I came to sunny climes, where Nature's mirth 
 
 And Nature's tenderest softness seemed to twine; 
 Which they who call'd them theirs, deemed first of 
 Earth , 
 
 I blamed them not, for so to me were mine. 
 I saw fair scenes ; but, ah ! they only brought 
 Remembrance of far dearer to my thought, 
 Till tears the present image veil'd, and then 
 Behind their mists the lost land rose again ; 
 That land which smiled, although I saw it not, 
 
 And wore the aspect I had watch'd for years, 
 Whose mother-image is by none forgot, 
 
 Stamp'd by the joy of youth, burn'd in by man- 
 hood's tears.
 
 51 
 
 " Then, wretched exile ! would I sit me down, 
 
 Where some high point look'd furthest o'er the 
 
 Sea, 
 And gaze towards the spot whole hours alone, 
 
 Where home and native land were once for me. 
 And if the billows inward sent their spray, 
 And told of breezes winging thence their way, 
 I bent my knee to feel that wind pass o'er, 
 Which had been where I fain would be once more ; 
 I sent my sighs on the returning air, 
 
 I spread mine arms toward the viewless shore; 
 My bosom centred all its yearnings there, 
 
 To Friendship's accents deaf, to Love's best 
 kindness sore. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 " At length, at length, oh day, whose burst of 
 bliss 
 
 I dream'd not then, and understand not now ! 
 The word was spoke that ended woe like this, 
 
 The ban was taken from my exiled brow.
 
 52 
 
 A storm raged wild : I thank'd kind Heaven, and 
 
 gave 
 
 My wealth to one to bear me o'er the wave ; 
 And, like a sea-bird, o'er the billow's snow 
 Sped my wild bark, and yet I deem'd it slow. 
 Night fell, and all was hidden in its veil, 
 
 The Morning dawn'd, and port and peak were 
 
 nigh; 
 
 Oh, human strength could little then avail ! 
 The heart, half broke with woe, now burst at 
 
 once for joy. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 " So died I, gazing on the land I loved, 
 
 By joy's forgotten passion o'er-oppress'd ; 
 It killed the feeble frame through which it moved 
 The soul was grown too pow'rless to be bless'd. 
 Hope died within it, Pleasure sank subdued, 
 And Grief alone became its natural mood. 
 Awhile I wander'd viewless upon Earth, 
 And grieved while gazing e'en on my home's 
 hearth.
 
 53 
 
 On mountain ridge and lake's lone shore I sigh'd, 
 And swept in wailing winds o'er Ocean's tide; 
 Until to happier souls awhile 'twas given 
 To make the land they, too, had loved, their 
 
 heaven. 
 Then, from their presence sent, I had my place 
 
 Here, where the wretched of existence dwell ; 
 A land create, perchance, for good and grace, 
 
 But 'tis to me, like all beside, a hell !" 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 ' Feeble thou wert," another Spectre cried, 
 Who wore a female shape, and sate apart, 
 As though her grief, unmatch'd by aught beside, 
 
 Stood king-like, amid many a broken heart. 
 " Feeble thou wert ; and what except Dismay 
 Could'st hope when Earth's few years were pass'd 
 
 away ; 
 
 And with them borne the clay, the rill, the tree, 
 Which make up home's best portraiture to thee?
 
 54 
 
 Home is not there, where flows th' accustom'd tide ; 
 
 Not in the vale that breathes a native air ; 
 Not in the hearth that we have lived beside, 
 
 It is the living forms, who were Companions there. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 " Oh, I had gone wherever snow or sun 
 
 Froze Nature's breast, or cover'd it with flow'rs ; 
 And if meanwhile on mine I bore my son, 
 
 Had thought each scene we pass'd my native 
 
 bow'rs. 
 
 I knew not where more precious breezes blew, 
 Save as they touch'd his cheek with healthier hue ; 
 I mark'd not where there shone a bluer sky, 
 Save as reflected from his brighter eye. 
 There was my mirror of the world without, 
 
 My altar for the world beyond our view ; 
 Through him, and to him pass'd, each social 
 thought, 
 
 And worship of that gift was all the creed I knew.
 
 55 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 " My Boy, my First-born, my Beatitude, 
 
 Died on this nursing breast, that flow'd in vain ; 
 Pain in those eyes that used to seek me stood, 
 
 The clasping fingers now were stretch'd by pain : 
 And when they glazed and stiffen'd, what was I ? 
 A Mother, and beheld my first-born die ! 
 Oh ! surely then my part on earth was done, 
 My time pass'd by, my aim and purpose gone. 
 I, too, must die ! and from that hour unblest, 
 
 Food I refused, and starved the vital flame. 
 Could I have borne to feel it fill my breast, 
 
 And have no cherub lip to drink it when it came? 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 " They spoke of comfort, but I closed the ear 
 That used to listen to my Infant's strain ; 
 
 That voice was gone, and ne'er should one less 
 
 dear, 
 With baser sounds, the Mother's ear profane.
 
 56 
 
 They fain would join my hands and lift my eyes, 
 In prayer submissive, toward the angry skies ; 
 But, no ! He gave the treasure that was gone ; 
 He bound my soul about that taken one ; 
 And I, obedient more to Nature's call, 
 Clasp 'd my cold boy, and wept upon his pall. 
 I, too, was ready, since his time was done ; 
 
 And when full soon upon him closed the tomb, 
 True to the thoughts which through my life had 
 run, 
 
 I died upon his grave, whose birth-place was my 
 womb." 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Thus spake, thus paused they, and with frame op- 
 press'd, 
 
 Languid or rigid, like their several pain, 
 Each, when his tale of sorrow was express'd, 
 
 Sank back to gloominess or grief again. 
 I mark'd them as on earth we sometimes stand 
 Before the tomb-place of an ancient land,
 
 57 
 
 Within whose bourne, in desolation drear, 
 Name, Nation, Story, with the dust are laid : 
 
 But Hope descends to dry for them the tear 
 77iese had left Hope behind they were the 
 risen dead. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Oh ! had they thought, while yet 'twas time to 
 
 think, 
 
 How Grief to human souls is like the breeze, 
 Which wafts the bark, that lengthen'd calms 
 
 would sink, 
 In triumph home across the conquer'd seas ! 
 Had they but raised their thoughts so high as man 
 Has power to look beyond his mortal span ; 
 And o'er their human misery watch'd the star 
 
 Of their great fortunes in the upper sky ! 
 Victorious urged o'er mortal griefs the war, 
 And in the strife confirm'd their nature's 
 dignity.
 
 58 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 For 'tis not only in the sun to bask, 
 
 Nor by bright hearths to shun the tempest's rage, 
 That man is summon'd to his earthly task, 
 
 And shewn afar his native heritage. 
 More glorious labours are assign'd the race 
 Whose future home is all the breadth of space, 
 And who in many a fight must win the strength 
 Which nerves their spirits to that height at length ; 
 E'en as the Falcon, when the wind is fair, 
 
 Close to the earth on lagging pinions goes, 
 But when against her beats the adverse air, 
 | She breasts the gale, and rises as it blows. 
 
 END OK CANTO I. 
 
 T. C. SuvO), Printer, 107, St. Martin's Lam.
 
 THE QUEEN'S BALL 
 
 BY V. 
 
 " I hear that one hundred and fifty people were invited 
 to the ball, last Friday, who are dead." 
 
 Extract of a Letter from a Friend, dated June \~ith, 1847. 
 
 LONDON 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 
 1847.
 
 THE QUEEN'S BALL. 
 
 How soon forgotten are the Dead ! 
 
 A splendid throng the Palace calls 
 
 To meet and revel in its halls; 
 And of the names that thus are sped, 
 Seven score and ten of them are dead. 
 
 They had been living when the crowd 
 Last met within these portals proud; 
 They join'd the dance, they shared the feast, 
 They glitter'd brightly in their best; 
 Since then on dying beds they lay, 
 And, hid at home, had pass'd away, 
 
 Far from the tumult and the sound; 
 
 And when the holiday came round,
 
 Their summons with the rest went out ; 
 The crowd till now had missed them not. 
 They heard it in their narrow bed, 
 It pierced to each one's shrouded head, 
 Where cold, and dark, and silent, they 
 Beneath the Sod or Marble lay; 
 And Pluto grimly gave consent, 
 That to the feast their steps be bent. 
 
 Full many a one refused his ear 
 
 To sounds which once had been so dear; 
 
 He shut his eyes again, and said, 
 
 'Twas wrong to 'mind him of his woes; 
 And made a signal with his head, 
 
 That they should leave him to repose. 
 He would not lift the sealing stone, 
 
 Nor ope the coffin lid anew; 
 To have the wide world for his own, 
 
 Again he would not jostle through.
 
 But some came gliding from their den, 
 Glad to be summoned once again; 
 The royal words that call'd them there, 
 Forced through the door their forms of air. 
 They and the living mix'd once more, 
 And paced the length en'd corridor; . 
 Both heard the music swell and fall, 
 The flow'rs breathed perfume over all, 
 With robes of state, the shrouds were blent, 
 And, side by side, up stairs they went. 
 
 But little did those living men 
 The things that were among them ken; 
 The Spirits wore such ghostly hue, 
 That you might see men's faces through; 
 They cast no gloom upon the way, 
 Nor diram'd a lady's bright array, 
 For shadows, shadowless, were they. 
 Where space was left, they glided on, 
 None knew the space held any one;
 
 6 
 
 Where throng'd the crowd those chambers wide, 
 Their airy forms pass'd through and e'en 
 
 When press'd the living side to side, 
 The risen dead were there between. 
 
 One phantom was a girl, who here 
 Had glitter'd in her eighteenth year, 
 So heavenly fair in those bright hours, 
 With quaint device of dress and flow'rs, 
 That the eye dwelt on her surprised, 
 As on a fable realized : 
 One, spell-bound most of all, had burn'd 
 With love, which frankly she return'd; 
 But while their silken courtship sped, 
 
 Did sudden clouds a storm unroll; 
 And 'twixt them left a gulf so dread 
 
 As frightened from its place her soul. 
 The world, whose fragile ornament 
 
 She for a time so brief had been,
 
 Heard, faintly, of some dark event, 
 That hid her from its festive scene; 
 
 Heard all that was, and what was not; 
 
 Inquired, conjectured, and forgot. 
 
 Meantime the maiden's life took wing; 
 Beneath Existence' strife it died; 
 
 And, like a fountain of the Spring, 
 It met the Summer's sun, and dried. 
 
 Her lover watch'd, with broken heart, 
 (Or what to him and her seem'd broken,) 
 And the last words that she heard spoken, 
 
 Were, " Not for long, my Life, we part." 
 
 She heard, and smiled, in death, to be 
 
 Love's victim, and its victory. 
 
 She came this night, and, unseen, moved, 
 Where she had glitter'd, triumph'd, loved; 
 And, 'mid new beauties, sought for one 
 Who should lament for her that's gone.
 
 8 
 
 She found him straight; but, ah! no dream 
 Of her, the dead, there seem'd for him; 
 He moved among the fair and gay, 
 His smile, and ready word had they; 
 He touch'd soft hands, and breathed a sigh, 
 And sought, and found an answering eye; 
 And in the dance he mix'd with many, 
 As happy and as light as any. 
 Then on his breast the phantom rush'd, 
 Her phantom hair his bosom brush'd, 
 Her fond fantastic arms she wound, 
 Beseechingly, his form around. 
 
 Her airy lips his visage kiss'd; 
 In vain, in vain; no thought he cast 
 Back on the memory of the past, 
 And she must let it go at last, 
 
 The cherish'd hope that she was miss'd. 
 
 A ghost went gliding round, who'd been 
 The guest of guests, in such a scene;
 
 9 
 
 Without his wit, the feast was cross'd, 
 
 Without his pen, the scene was lost; 
 
 He came to earth, to weep their lot, 
 
 Who wanted him, and found him not. 
 
 But, where were they? Did none recall 
 
 His presence, needful once to all? 
 
 New wits were ris'n new words were said, 
 
 And his like him were of the dead. 
 
 Yet Genius is a deathless light. 
 
 That still burns on through thickest night; 
 
 It fires a steady lamp, whose rays 
 
 Descend through time, like stars through space ; 
 
 Though twice a thousand years be fled, 
 
 We still repeat what JEsop said. 
 
 Thus he, sad ghost ! slow circling there, 
 
 By many an all-unconscious ear; 
 
 Caught at the last, the dearest name, 
 
 His own, the hold he had on Fame. 
 
 " Poor ," the speaker said, " his mot, 
 
 The witty soul! was so and so."
 
 10 
 
 He heard, he drank the praise they gave, 
 And went the easier to his grave. 
 
 A ghost was there, who died in age, 
 Not wearied yet with pilgrimage; 
 A soul, so kindly and so slight, 
 So guileless in the world's despite 
 
 So void of thought, yet rightly feeling, 
 It could have no descending weight, 
 'Twould flutter up to heaven's gate, 
 
 Like down, on rising breezes, stealing. 
 And yet she sighed to see the ray 
 
 Of gem and gold, her own of late, 
 Which on a younger bosom lay, 
 
 The owner of her name and state. 
 Not all forgotten, she; for one 
 Whom the new Lady smiled upon, 
 Said, " Is it true, then, that at last 
 The ancient Dame away has pass'd?
 
 11 
 
 She heard, and turned her to the Tomb, 
 And said " Alas! your turn will come." 
 
 A shade who had been once a Mother 
 
 Now came and mingled with the rest ; 
 Among the crowd she sought no other 
 
 Than her she nursed upon her breast. 
 'Twas not so long since she had died 
 
 Only six months since she was gone ; 
 And when they filled those halls of Pride, 
 None recollected that the Maid 
 
 Ought to be summon'd now, alone. 
 There was she, slender, young, and fair, 
 White feathers in her auburn hair ; 
 A robe of white, where threads of wool 
 Scarce made the web less slight and cool ; 
 Silk lace, like cobwebs fine and slack, 
 
 And on her arm a bracelet black. 
 The black was that which mourn'd her mother,
 
 12 
 
 And sign of grief she had no other. 
 
 The phantom look'd into her face 
 
 If aught of sorrow she might trace; 
 
 And gazing, almost smiled to see 
 
 How glad and beautiful was she; 
 
 But when she mark'd that fairy thing 
 
 Unguided walk the Circe ringj 
 
 Who in her gay imprudence did 
 
 Things which a mother would forbid 
 
 Oh, then the Phantom sank beneath 
 
 The real bitterness of Death. 
 
 " My girl, my darling!" (thus she cried 
 
 In words to which was sound denied,) 
 
 " My treasure, pleasure, first-born, pride, 
 
 For thine own sake, oh, think upon 
 
 The doting mother who is gone!" 
 
 Fond words, vain words, that mix'd with air 
 
 Which floated musically there.
 
 13 
 
 More ghosts ! more ghosts ! one spirit came 
 Answering the summons to his name; 
 To bear it was so long his lot, 
 
 That he forgot 'twas his no more; 
 But all, except himself, forgot 
 
 That ever it was he who bore. 
 He saw his heir, he heard him call 
 " Mine!" the broad lands, the hounds, the hall ; 
 He saw the same bland list'ning smile 
 Which shone for him in life, erewhile; 
 He felt, " Could I again go home 
 In flesh and blood, as here I come,- 
 What were the sorrow, the despair 
 Of those who wear my mourning there? " 
 
 More ghosts! before a lovely dame 
 One, passionate and trembling came; 
 And mark'd her easy, pamper'd grace, 
 Her locks arrang'd, and flower-crown'd face. 
 In one past hour those two had been
 
 14 
 
 The actors in a fearful scene. 
 
 Oh, God! what Tragedies pass o'er 
 
 The great world's gilded Theatre ! 
 What deeds may they have wrought before, 
 
 Who now so smooth and bland appear! 
 And when the fatal scene is o'er, 
 
 What different Fate for him and her; 
 She lightly skims the ball-room floor, 
 
 And he is in the sepulchre! 
 His shadowy hands catch hers, not now 
 Her pulses throb, her fingers glow; 
 He says a word, but wakes no flame, 
 Recalls no crime, renews no shame ! 
 The circling world admires and woos, 
 
 The place with sights of joy is full, 
 And she her dainty path pursues, 
 
 Fastidious, courted, beautiful; 
 And yet across her heart there shot 
 A sudden, isolated thought; 
 A sudden sight her mind's eye caught,
 
 15 
 
 Places and shapes which once had been ; 
 Herself, and him, and all that lay 
 Behind in that eventful day, 
 
 And what was done and suffer'd then. 
 To-night what made it reappear? 
 
 None living knew of it, save her; 
 And there was nothing to recall 
 Such thoughts in that resplendent hall. 
 No ; that bright lady knew not why; 
 Perchance the cause was He was nigh. 
 
 More Ghosts ! I know their stories well, 
 But stories more, I will not tell. 
 
 T. C. Savill, Printer, 4, Chandos-street, Covent-garden.
 
 University of California 
 
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