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Nay, love, let's fly, to the hill so high,
Where eagles build their nest;
As blithely as the best.
We'll leave the bower and tender flower
That we have nursed with care ;
Beside our craggy lair.
We shall not die, for all birds that fly
Shall thither bring us food, And come the worst, we 'll be help'd the first,
Before the eagle's brood.
The mist beneath, that curls its wreath
Around the hill-top hoar,
And ne'er be heard of more.
SENSE, IF YOU CAN FIND IT.
LIKE one pale, flitting, lonely gleam
Of sunshine on a winter's day,
It came from far away.
Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight
That visit our bedarken'd clay, Like passage birds, with hasty flight, It cannot be they perish quite,
Although they pass away.
They come and go, and come again;
They 're ours, whatever time they stay : Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain
Before they pass away.
But whither go they? No one knows
Their home,—but yet they seem to say, That far beyond this gulf of woes, There is a region of repose
For them that pass away.
And the imperial votaress passed on
I BLAME not her, because my soul
,-a treasure Of self-sufficing good,-a whole
Complete in every measure.
I charge her not with cruel pride,
With self-admired disdain ; Too happy she, or to deride,
Or to perceive my pain.
I blame her not-she cannot know
What she did never prove : Her streams of sweetness purely flow
Unblended yet with love.
No fault hath she, that I desire
What she cannot conceive; For she is made of bliss entire,
And I was born to grieve.
And though she hath a thousand wiles,
And, in a moment's space,
Come showering from her face,
Those winsome smiles, those sunny looks,
Her heart securely deems,
In the cold moonlight beams.
Her sweet affections, free as wind,
Nor fear, nor craving feel; No secret hollow hath her mind
For passion to reveal.
Her being's law is gentle bliss,
Her purpose, and her duty; And quiet joy her loveliness,
And gay delight her beauty.
Then let her walk in mirthful pride,
Dispensing joy and sadness, By her light spirit fortified
In panoply of gladness.
The joy she gives shall still be her's,
The sorrow shall be mine;
That pants for the divine.
But better 'tis to love, I ween,
And die of slow despair,
A maid so lovely fair.
"Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,
That bids a blithe good-morrow;
To the soothing song of sorrow.
And is she sad or jolly?
So like to melancholy.
The merry lark, he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him; He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
The nightingale is trilling;
Her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon, a sigh,
Peers through her lavish mirth; For the lark's bold song is of the sky,
And her's is of the earth.