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And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.-
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, .
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains : with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic art of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveald
A marvel and a secret-Be it so!
My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the dooin
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality-the one
To end in madness-both in misery.
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To ihose thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st--too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,
And spuras deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doomed to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely ;
What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warmed ?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition
As if a dream alone had charmed?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming !
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine,
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see : The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thiné own,
Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak : Oh! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woc,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.
The chain I gavé was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offered both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charmed by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine ; And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let hiin, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shivered in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they altered too;
The chain is broke, the music mute : 'Tis past--to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED).
I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
The comet of a season, and I saw
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With not the less of sorrow and of awe
On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
With name no clearer than the names unknown,
Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd
The gardener of that ground, which it might be
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd
Through the thick deaths of half a century ?
And thus he answered — « Well, I do not know
« Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
« He died before my day of sextonship, .
« And I had not the digging of this grave. »
And is this all ? 'I thought, — and do we rip
The veil of Immortality ? and crave
I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight?
So soon and so successless ? As I said,
The Architect of all on which we tread,
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought
Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers ;- as he caught
As ’twere the twilight of a former Sun,
Thus spoke he, -- « I believe the man of whom
4 You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,