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Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire,
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead-
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly.
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains--near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp, —
By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy,--

There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth-and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing regionFor the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis-oh, 'tis an Eldorado ! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not—dare not openly view it! Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed ; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.

TO ZANTE.

Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! How many memories of what radiant hours

At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss !

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes !
How many visions of a maiden that is
No more-

-no more upon thy verdant slopes ! No more! alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more-Thy memory no more! Accursèd ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante !

“ Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante !"

EUL ALIE.

I DWELT alone

In a world of moan,

And

my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie

Became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie

Became my smiling bride.

Ah, less-less bright

The stars of the night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

And never a flake

That the vapour can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,

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