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But the white shroud, and each extended tress, Long-fair—but spread in utter lifelessness, Which, late the sport of every summer wind, Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind : These—and the pale pure cheek, became the bier But she is nothing—wherefore is he here ?
He ask'd no question-all were answer'd now By the first glance on that still-marble brow. It was enough—she died—what reck'd it how ? The love of youth, the hope of better years, The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, The only living thing he could not hate, Was reft at once-and he deserved his fate, But did not feel it less :— the good explore, For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar; The proud-the wayward—who have fix'd below Their joy—and find this earth enough for woe, Lose in that one their all-perchance a miteBut who in patience parts with all delight ? Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, In smiles that least befit who wear them most.
The moon is up, and yet it is not night
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest !
A single star is at her side, and reigns
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, [glows. Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which from afar
With a new colour as it gasps away,
A PICTURE GALLERY BY MOONLIGHT.
Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw
His chamber door wide open-and went forth Into a gallery of sombre hue,
Long, furnished with old pictures of great worth, Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too,
As doubtless should be people of high birth.
Look living in the moon; and as you turn
Of your own footsteps-voices from the um
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern, As if to ask how you can dare to keep A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. And the pale smile of Beauties in the grave,
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams Glimmer on high; their buried locks still wave
Along the canvas; their eyes glance like dreams On ours, or spars within some dusky cave,
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams.
MORN IN THE SOUTH SEAS.
MYRRHA DESCRIBED BY SARDANAPALUS.
I paused To look upon her, and her kindled cheek;
Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long
hair As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose Along her most transparent brow; her nostril Dilated from its symmetry; her lips Apart; her voice that clove through all the din, As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, Jarred but not drown'd by the loud brattling; her Waved arms, more dazzling by their own born
whiteness Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up From a dead soldier's grasp; all these things made Her seem unto the troops a prophetess Of victory, or Victory herself, Come down to hail us hers.
NAPOLEON. But where is he, the modern, mightier far, Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car; The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings, Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled of late, Chained to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? Yes ! where is he, the Champion and the Child Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ? Whose game was empires and whose stakes were
thrones? Whose table earth-whose dice were human bones? Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ;
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
How, if that soaring Spirit shall retain