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Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto;
LOVE. * Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ;
A spark of that immortal fire
To lift from earth our low desire.
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?
And place them on their breast--but place to die
SYMPTOMS OF LOVE.
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown,
Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne,
'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
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;
Sweet is revenge especially to women ;
The unexpected death of some old lady
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,
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end
Particularly with a tiresome friend;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Is first and passionate love it stands alone,
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.
MOONLIGHT FAVOURABLE TO LOVE. 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.
MANFRED'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
Glorious orb! the idol Of early nature and the vigorous race Of undiseased 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 UnknownWho 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.
MANFRED'S SOLILOQUY ON THE JUNGFRAU. 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 perilyet 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 myselfThe last infirmity of evil. Ay,