On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye,
There's a large tear gathering heavily;
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press'd-
Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest!

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours,
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perish'd flowers.
Oh! we bear within us mysterious things;
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom'd springs;
And Passion-those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still.
Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear,
They find no fount of oblivion here!

They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath-
How know we if under the wings of death?

THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.

"Oh! that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and be at rest."- -Psalm lv.

OH! for thy wings, thou dove!

Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That, borne like thee above,

I too might flee away, and be at rest!

Where wilt thou fold those plumes,

. Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird? In what rich leafy glooms,

By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr'd?

Over what blessed home,

What roof with dark, deep Summer foliage crown'd, O fair as ocean's foam!

Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?

Or seek'st thou some old shrine

Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo'd,
Though still, as if divine,

Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude?

Yet wherefore ask thy way?

Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art!
Unto the greenwood spray,

Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!

No echoes that will blend

A sadness with the whispers of the grove;
No memory of a friend

Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove!

Oh! to some cool recess

Take, take me with thee on the summer wind,
Leaving the weariness

And all the fever of this life behind:

The aching and the void

Within the heart, whereunto none reply,
The young bright hopes destroy'd-
Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky!

Wild wish, and longing vain,

And brief upspringing to be glad and free!
Go to thy woodland reign:

My soul is bound and held-I may not flee.

For even by all the fears

And thoughts that haunt my dreams-untold, unknown

And burning woman's tears,

Pour'd from mine eyes in silence and alone;

Had I thy wings, thou dove!

High 'midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,
Soon the strong cords of love

Would draw me earthwards-homewards-yet once

more.

PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE.1

"Souvent l'âme, fortifiée par la contemplation des choses divines, voudroit déployer ses ailes vers le ciel. Elle croit qu'au terme de sa carrière un rideau va se lever pour lui découvrir des scènes de lumière : mais quand la mort touche son corps périssable, elle jette un regard en arrière vers les plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes mortelles."

SCHLEGEL, translated by MADAME DE STAEL.

FEARFULLY and mournfully

Thou bidd'st the earth farewell,
And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one!
In a brighter land to dwell.

Ascend, ascend rejoicing!

The sunshine of that shore

Around thee, as a glorious robe,

Shall stream for evermore.

1 Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight upwards, is represented looking back sadly and anxiously to the earth.

The breezy music wandering

There through th' Elysian sky,
Hath no deep tone that seems to float
From a happier time gone by.

And there the day's last crimson
Gives no sad memories birth,
No thought of dead or distant friends,
Or partings-as on earth.

Yet fearfully and mournfully

Thou bidd'st that earth farewell, Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one! In a brighter land to dwell.

A land where all is deathless-
The sunny wave's repose,
The wood with its rich melodies,
The summer and its rose.

A land that sees no parting,
That hears no sound of sighs,

That waits thee with immortal air-
Lift, lift those anxious eyes!

Oh! how like thee, thou trembler!
Man's spirit fondly clings
With timid love, to this, its world
Of old familiar things!

We pant, we thirst for fountains
That gush not here below!
On, on we toil, allured by dreams
Of the living water's flow:

We pine for kindred natures
To mingle with our own;

For communings more full and high
Than aught by mortal known:

We strive with brief aspirings
Against our bonds in vain;
Yet summon'd to be free at last,
We shrink-and clasp our chain;

And fearfully and mournfully

We bid the earth farewell,
Though passing from its mists, like thee,
In a brighter world to dwell.

THE BOON OF MEMORY.

'Many things answered me."— Manfred.

I Go, I go!-and must mine image fade

From the green spots wherein my childhood play'd,
By my own streams?

Must my life part from each familiar place,
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace
Of its lone themes?

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met
In grief or glee?

All the sweet counsel, the communion high,
The kindly words of trust in days gone by,
Pour'd full and free?