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This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for [said.
'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been A third's all pallid aspect offered more
The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betrayed, Through the heaved breast, the dream of some far shore
Beloved and deplored ; while slowly strayed (As night dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark
fringes. A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,
Lay in a breathless, hushed, and stony sleep ;
Or the snow minaret on Alpine steep,
My similes are gathered in a heap,
FEMALE ANGUISH. She stood a moment as a Pythoness
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full Of Inspiration gathered from Distress,
When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull The heart asunder :-then, as more or less
Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, And bowed her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow, Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,
Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, A low, soft ottoman), and black Despair
Stirred up and down her bosom like a billow,
Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles check
Concealed her features better than a veil:
White, waxen, and as alabaster, pale :
All that a poet drags into detail !
THE LAKE OF GENEVA.
Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake,
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
He is an evening reveller, who makes
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven!
for A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them
selves a star.
All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty ,-'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
Not vainly did the early Persian make
With nature's realms or worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! The sky is changed !--and such a change ! Oh
night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wond'rous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
And this is in the night:-most glorious night!
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er the young earthquake's birth. Of years
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way be
tween Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other
thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom and then de.
parted : Itself expired, but leaving them an age
all winters-war within themselves to wage. Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his
way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : For here, not one, but many, make their play, And Aling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around : of all the band, The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd His lightnings,—as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein
lurk’d. Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departed voices is the knoll Of what in me is sleepless,—if I rest. But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ?
Are ye like those within the human breast ? Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ?