II.

It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,

And dream the rest- - and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,

Couldst thou but be as thou hast been

III.

After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets re-appear,
All things revive in field or grove

And sky and sea, but two, which move
And form all others, life and love.

A BRIDAL SONG.

I.

THE golden gates of Sleep unbar

Where Strength and Beauty met together

Kindle their image like a star

And, like loveliness panting with wild desire
While it trembles with fear and delight,
Hesperus flies from awakening night,
And pants in its beauty and speed with light
Fast flashing, soft, and bright.

Thou beacon of love! thou lamp of the free!
Guide us far, far away,

To climes where now veiled by the ardour of day
Thou art hidden

From waves on which weary noon,

Faints in her summer swoon,

Between Kingless continents sinless as Eden,

Around mountains and islands inviolably

Prankt on the sapphire sea.

FINAL CHORUS FROM HELLAS.

THE world's great age begins anew,

The golden years return,

The earth doth like a snake renew

Her winter weeds outworn:

1821.

Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam,

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Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains

From waves serener far;

A new Peneus rolls his fountains

Against the morning-star.

Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,

Fraught with a later prize;

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And leave, if naught so bright may live,

All earth can take or Heaven can give.

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Saturn and Love their long repose

Shall burst, more bright and good Than all who fell, than One who rose,

Than many unsubdued:

Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

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O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.

The world is weary of the past,

O might it die or rest at last!

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TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.

I.

THE serpent is shut out from paradise.

The wounded deer must seek the herb no more
In which its heart-cure lies:

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower
Like that from which its mate with feignèd sighs
Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again
Near happy friends a mitigated pain.

II.

Of hatred I am proud, — with scorn content;
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown
Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone

Can break a spirit already more than bent.

The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food,

Its medicine is tears,—its evil good.

III.

Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die :

The very comfort that they minister

I scarce can bear, yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,

Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.

IV.

When I return to my cold home, you ask

Why I am not as I have ever been.

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