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I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss With which she promised, that when spring

returned, She would resign one half of that dear name, And own thenceforth no other name but mine!



SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly

kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of

That his sick body might have ease and rest ;
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced; though like some captive

Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confessed,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:

Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, Each night was scattered by its own loud screams : Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and

boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he

wouldFor Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost ! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its

gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noontide

bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and


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'Tis sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore !



OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

And dedicated name, I hear
A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert,
That gladness half requests to weep!

Nor bless I not the keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting

From jealous fears, or coy denying ;

But born beneath Love's brooding wing,
And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again ;-

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go,
And leave their sweeter understrain

Its own sweet self—a love of Thee
That seems, yet cannot greater be!




How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here;

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,

As if to have you yet more near.


Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'er head the skylark shrills.


No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why

That asking look ? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise everywhere?

Beloved ! flew your spirit by?


As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply, had I been beguiled.

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