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Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamoured moon Blushes with love;

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven)

Pauses in Heaven.

in.

And they say (the starry choir,
And the other listening things)

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings,—

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty-
Where Love's a grown-up god—

Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

s Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long!

VI.

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit";

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervour of thy lute:
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

TO

I Heed not that my earthly lot

Hath little of Earth in it;
That years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute:
I mourn not that the desolate

Are happier, sweet, than I; But that you sorrow for my fate,

Who am a passer-by.

FOR ANNIE.

Thank Heaven! the crisis,

The danger is past, And the lingering illness

Is over at last; And the fever called " Living

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,

I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length: But no matter ! — I feel

I am better at length.

in. And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed, That any beholder

Might fancy me dead— Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

IV.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:—ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

v.

The sickness, the nausea,

The pitiless pain,
Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain— With the fever called " Living"

That burned in my brain.

vi. And, oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst
Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:
I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:—

VII.

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,

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