LXVIII.

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark,

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc,

A light of ancient France;

LXIX.

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,

Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

LXX.

No memory labours longer from the deep

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

LXXI.

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike

Into that wondrous track of dreams again!

But no two dreams are like.

LXXII.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years,

In yearnings that can never be exprest

By signs or groans or tears;

LXIII.

Because all words, though cull'd with choicest art,

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet,

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart

Faints, faded by its heat.

MARGARET.

O SWEET pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,

Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have won

A tearful grace, as though you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun.

The very smile before you speak,

That dimples your transparent cheek,

Encircles all the heart, and feedeth

The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,

Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.

You love, remaining peacefully,

To hear the murmur of the strife,

But enter not the toil of life.

Your spirit is the calmed sea,

Laid by the tumult of the fight.

You are the evening star, alway

Remaining betwixt dark and bright :

Lull'd echoes of laborious day

Come to you, gleams of mellow light

Float by you on the verge of night.

What can it matter, Margaret,

What songs below the waning stars,

The lion-heart, Plantagenet,

Sang looking thro' his prison bars?

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell

The last wild thought of Chatelet,
Just ere the falling axe did part
The burning brain from the true heart,
Even in her sight he loved so well?

A fairy shield your Genius made

And

gave you on your natal day.

Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,

Keeps real sorrow far away.

You move not in such solitudes,
You are not less divine,

But more human in your moods,

Than your twin-sister, Adeline.

Your hair is darker, and your eyes

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue,

And less aërially blue,

But ever trembling thro' the dew

Of dainty-woeful sympathies.