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To him who still would look upon

The glory of the summer sun.

That soul will hate the ev'ning mist

So often lovely, and will list

To the sound of the coming darkness (known

To those whose spirits hearken) as one

Who, in a dream of night would fly

But cannot from a danger nigh.

What though the moon—the white moon—
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one —
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown;
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty—which is all.

XXII.

I reach'd my home—my home no more —
For all had flown who made it so.

I pass'd from out its mossy door,

And, though my tread was soft and low,

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A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known —
Oh, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
An humbler heart—a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe—

I know—for Death who comes for me From regions of the blest afar, Where there is nothing to deceive, Hath left his iron gate ajar,

And rays of truth you cannot see

Are flashing through Eternity,— I do believe that Eblis hath A snare in every human path— Else how, when in the holy grove I wander'd of the idol, Love, Who daily scents his snowy wings With incense of burnt-offerings From the most unpolluted things, Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven No mote may shun—no tiniest fly— The lightning of his eagle eye. How was it that Ambition crept,

Unseen, amid the revels there, Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt

In the tangles of Love's very hair?

TO THE RIVER

Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow

Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow

Of beauty, the unhidden heart— The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter:

Ii.

But when within thy wave she looks,

Which glistens then, and trembles, Why, then, the prettiest of brooks

Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,

Her image deeply lies—
His heart, which trembles at the beam

Of her soul-searching eyes.

TO

The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The waritonest singing birds,

Are lips—and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words

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Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined

Then desolately fall, O God! on my funereal mind

Like starlight on a pall—

in.

Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,

And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy—

Of the baubles that it may.

A DREAM.

i.

In visions of the dark night

I have dream'd of joy departed — But a waking dream of life and light

Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ii.

Ah! what is not a dream by day

To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray

Turn'd back upon the past?

in.

That holy dream—that holy dream,

While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

A lonely spirit guiding.

IV.

What though that light, through storm and night,

So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright

In Truth's day-star?

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