Where parted runnels leapt beneath its beam, I've sought thee, viewless spirit, 'mid the tombs, And marked the cold moon through some crevice peep O! how my heart shrunk, when the green light shone Down on the gaunt and grinning skeleton; And I saw there the gorged and lazy worm In rayless sockets coil its hideous form. Yet, solitude, even then I left thee not: My heart forgot its terror, thou wert near; With love, strong-deep, that heart's warm cell was fraught, And, rich in thee, it had no room for fear. But best I love to roam with thee, when spring Amid the wild woods, where the streams pass on Like wayward thoughts, the present joys that shun, And then the moon, the mother of the earth, Wandering alone o'er ether's boundless wild, I lift mine eyes to thee! delight alone Who all alike adore thee, lovely one. But yet thine hour must come, thine hour must pass Like summer clouds, or breath like beauty's glass. Alas! thou tarriest not at our behest, Although, of all heaven's lights, we love thee best. A. B. P. SOLITUDE. No longer weep-no more repine For if the world have loved thee not Its absence may be borne.' CAMPBELL. I. Yea, if the world have loved thee not, Thou canst not feel more lonely there. II. Though piercing be the wintry winds, And woman's heart is far more cold. III. For soon will end the mortal strife, Turn to the dust with death the blest; For though existence cease with life, IV. And in thy last long dreamless sleep, Little thou❜lt reck that thought in death. V. The sighing breeze, the groaning wood, Shall moan around thy lonely bed. VI. Then heed not, wretched though thou art, The withered leaf's abode to share, 'Tis fitting for a broken heart, And falsehood cannot reach thee there. W. D. FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime; Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with per fume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom; And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 'Tis the clime of the east, 'tis the land of the sunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. Byron. |