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Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto;
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire,
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city.-
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm !
I thank thee, Night! for thou hast chased away
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng,
I could not dissipate: and with the blessing
Of thy benign and quiet influence,
Now will I to my couch, although to rest
Is almost wronging such a night as this.


Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ;

A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Alla given,

To lift from earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But Heaven itself descends in love;
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
To wean from self each sordid thought;
A ray of him who formed the whole ;
A glory circling round the soul !

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Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah! why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,

And made thy best interpreter a sigh ?
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers,

And place them on their breast_but place to die
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind

Of gentle feminine delight, and shown
More in the eyelids than the eyes, resigned

Rather to hide what pleases most unknown,
Are the best tokens (to a modest mind)

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne,
A sincere woman's breast,—for over warm
Or over cold annihilates the charm.


'Tis sweet to hear At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ;

'Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky; 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark

Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 'Tis sweet to be awaken’d by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words ; Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth
Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes

From civic revelry to rural mirth ;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ;

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;

Sweet is revenge—especially to women ;
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
Sweet is the legacy ; and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady
Or gentleman of seventy years complete,

Who've made“us youth” wait too—too long already For an estate, or cash, or country-seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady,
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.
"Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,

By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end
To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,

Particularly with a tiresome friend;
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world ; and dear the school-boy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,

Is first and passionate love it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd-all's And life yields nothing further to recall [known

Worthy of this ambrosial sin ; so shown, No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.


There is a dangerous silence in that hour,

A stillness which leaves room for the full soul To open all itself, without the power

Of calling wholly back its self-control;

The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower,

Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole,
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws
A loving languor, which is not repose.


Glorious orb ! the idol Of early nature and the vigorous race Of undi sed mankind, the giant sons Of the embrace of angels, with a sex More beautiful than they, which did draw down The erring spirits who can ne'er return.“ Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere The mystery of thy making was revealed ! Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, Which gladdened, on their mountain tops, the heart Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poured Themselves in orisons! Thou material God ! And representative of the Unknown Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star! Centre of many stars! which makest our earth Endurable, and temperest the hues And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, Even as our outward aspects ;—thou dost rise, And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance Of love and wonder was for thee, then take My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : I follow.


The Mountain of the Jungfrau. Time, morning.

Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. The spirits I have raised abandon me The spells which I have studied baffle meThe remedy I recked of tortured me; I lean no more on super-human aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for The future, till the past be gulfed in darkness, It is not of my search.—My mother Earth! And thou fresh-breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight--thou shin'st not on my heart. And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance; when a leap, A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest for ever—wherefore do I pause ? I feel the impulse—yet I do not plunge ; I see the perilayet do not recede; And my brain reels and yet my foot is firm: There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live ; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself The last infirmity of evil. Ay,

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