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Was traced, and then it faded, as it came.
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow

steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he

pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold

more.

And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be? she had loved

him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself be-

loved, Nor ould he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind a spectre of the past.

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A change came o'er the spirit of my

dream. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wanderer was return'd. - I saw him The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the

stand wilds

Before an Altar with a gentle bride; Of fiery climes he made himself a home, Her face was fair, but was not that which And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was

made girt

The Starlight of his Boyhood; - as he stood With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came Himself like what he had been; on the sea The selfsame aspect, and the quivering And on the shore he was a wanderer;

shock

150 There was a mass of many images

That in the antique Oratory shook Crowded like waves upon me, but he was His bosom in its solitude; and then — A part of all; and in the last he lay

As in that hour a moment o'er his face Reposing from the noontide sultriness, The tablet of unutterable thoughts Couchd among fallen columns, in the shade Was traced — and then it faded as it came, Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping The fitting vows, but heard not his own side

words, Stood camels grazing, and some goodly And all things reel'd around him; he could

steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a Not that which was, nor that which should

have been Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, But the old mansion, and the accustom'd While many of his tribe slumber'd around: hall, And they were canopied by the blue sky, And the remember'd chambers, and the So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,

place, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the

shade, V

All things pertaining to that place and hour, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. And her who was his destiny, came back The Lady of his love was wed with One And thrust themselves between him and Who did not love her better: - in her

the light: home,

What business had they there at such a A thousand leagues from his, her native

time ? home, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 130 Daughters and sons of Beauty, – but be- A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. hold!

The Lady of his love; -Oh! she was Upon her face there was the tint of grief,

changed, The settled shadow of an inward strife, As by the sickness of the soul; her mind And an unquiet drooping of the eye, Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

eyes What could her grief be ? — she had all | They had not their own lustre, but the look she loved,

Which is not of the earth; she was become

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VII

170

The

queen of a fantastic realm; her

thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms, impalpable and unperceived Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift: What is it but the telescope of truth, Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real ?

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to

many men, And made him friends of mountains: with

the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was open’d wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveald 200 A marvel and a secret

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VIII

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"THE HARP THE MONARCH

MINSTREL SWEPT:

[These stanzas were written on returning from a ball-room, where he had seen Lady Wilmot Horton, who appeared in mourning with numerous spangles on her dress.] She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

THE harp the monarch minstrel swept,

The King of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, Redoubled be her tears, its chords are

riven ! It soften'd men of iron mould,

It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,

That felt not, fired not to the tone,
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his

throne !

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Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear; Will this unteach us to complain ? Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's Or make one mourner weep the less ? spear:

And thou who tell'st me to forget, How long by tyrants shall thy land be Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

trod ! How long thy temple worshipless, O God !

• MY SOUL IS DARK"

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Though thou art fall'n, while we are free

Thou shalt not taste of death !
The generous blood that flow'd from thee

Disdain'd to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,

Thy spirit on our breath!
Thy name, our charging hosts along,

Shall be the battle-word !
Thy fall, the theme of choral song

From virgin voices pour'd !
To weep would do thy glory wrong;

Thou shalt not be deplored.

From lips that moved not and unbreathing

frame, Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents

fame.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke,

Why is my sleep disquieted ?
Who is he that calls the dead ?
Is it thou, O King? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me:
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide:
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul !'
SEAHAM, February, 1815.

SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS

LAST BATTLE

WARRIORS and chiefs ! should the shaft or

the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, Heed not the corse, though a king's, in

your path: Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from

* ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE the foe,

PREACHER' Stretch me that moment in blood at thy FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine, feet!

And health and youth possess'd me; Mine be the doom which they dared not to

My goblets blush'd from every vine, meet.

And lovely forms caress'd me; Farewell to others, but never we part,

I sunnd my heart in beauty's eyes, Heir to my royalty, son of my heart !

And felt my soul grow tender; Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,

All earth can give, or mortal prize,

Was mine of regal splendour.
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day!
SEAHAM, 1815.

I strive to number o'er what days

Remembrance can discover,

Which all that life or earth displays
SAUL

Would lure me to live over.

There rose no day, there rolld no hour Thou whose spell can raise the dead,

Of pleasure unembitter'd;
Bid the prophet's form appear. - And not a trapping deck'd my power
"Samuel, raise thy buried head !

That gall’d not while it glitter'd.
King, behold the phantom seer !'-
Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a The serpent of the field, by art
cloud:

And spells, is won from harming; Light changed its hue, retiring from his But that which coils around the heart, shroud.

Oh! who hath power of charming ? Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye; It will not list to wisdom's lore, His hand was wither'd, and his veins were Nor music's voice can lure it; dry;

But there it stings for evermore His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, The soul that must endure it. Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; SEAHAM, 1815.

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