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Where parted runnels leapt beneath its beam,
With sound such as thou lovest, like the hush
I've sought thee, viewless spirit, 'mid the tombs,
Because I loved thee, loved thee even there, 'Mid black browed sepulchres and charnel glooms,
Content, dear solitude, thy home to share ; And marked the cold moon through some crevice peep Down o'er me, as I watched thy sullen sleep. O! how
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
Peeps from her arbours smilingly; and when The travelled swallow plies her homeward wing,
Syren, 'tis sweet to saunter with thee then
Amid the wild woods, where the streams pass on
From sun to shadow, slowly, silently, Like wayward thoughts, the present joys that shun, To brood, like toads, in memory's midnight caves, Where light, through fissures, glances but on graves ;
And as we wander there, to list from high The lone deep-throated cuckoo, whose sad song Is lifted up at eve those woods among.
And then the moon, the mother of the earth,
Looking with sad eyes on her miscreant child,
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
Yea--if the world have loved thee not,
Though piercing be the wintry winds,
For soon will end the mortal strife,
For though existence cease with life,
And in thy last long dreamless sleep,
The sighing breeze, the groaning wood,
Then heed not, wretched though thou art,
FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.
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 ?
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 ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour, though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? '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.