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The all of thine that cannot die
Returns again to me,
Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again
The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour
Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour
The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile
I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory! Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine ; I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine. If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,
It is not drain'd to banish care;
That brings a Lethe for despair.
From all her troubled visions free, I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee. For wert thou vanished from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn ?
And who would then remain behind
To honour thine abandon'd urn ? No, no- it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil : Though all the world forget beside,
'Tis meet that I remember still.
For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou. And, oh! I feel in that was given
A blessing never meant for me; Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven,
For earthly love to merit thee.
THE SONG OF TOOBONAI. How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai, When summer's sun went down the coral bay! Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, And hear the warbling birds! the damsels said: The wood-dove from the forest-depth shall coo, Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo; We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead, For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head: And we will sit in twilight's face, and see The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, The lofty accents of whose sighing bough Shall sadly please us as we lean below; Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. How beautiful are these ! how happy they,
Who from the toil and tumult of their lives,
Yes—from the sepulchre we 'll gather flowers,
But now the dance is o'er-yet stay awhile ;
To' our tale.-The feast was over, the slaves gone,
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired, The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired ; The lady and her lover left alone,
The rosy flood of twilight sky admired : Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee! Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power,
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirred with prayer. Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer !
Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove What though 'tis but a pictured image strike That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,
In nameless print that I have no devotion ; But set those persons down with me to pray,
And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way:
My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er To where the last Cesarian fortress stood,
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along : The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye.