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Be braided nevermore?
No, the lady is not dead,
Though flung thus wildly o'er her bed;
Like a wrecked corse upon the shore,
That lies until the morning brings
Searchings, and shrieks, and sorrowings;
Or haply, to all eyes unknown,
Is borne away without a groan,
On a chance plank, 'mid joyful cries
Of birds that pierce the sunny skies
With seaward dash, or in calm bands
Parading o'er the silvery sands,
Or 'mid the lovely flush of shells,
Pausing to burnish crest or wing,
No fading footmark see that tells
Of that poor unremember'd thing!

O dreadful is the world of dreams,

When all that world a chaos seems

Of thoughts so fix'd before!

When heaven's own face is tinged with blood!

And friends cross o'er our solitude,

Now friends of ours no more!

Or, dearer to our hearts than ever,

Keep stretching forth with vain endeavour,

Their pale and palsied hands,

To clasp us phantoms, as we go

Along the void like drifting snow,

To far-off nameless lands!

Yet all the while we know not why,

Nor where those dismal regions lie,

Half hoping that a curse so deep

And wild can only be in sleep,

And that some overpowering scream

Will break the fetters of the dream,

And let us back to waking life,

Pill'd though it be with care and strife;

Since there at least the wretch can know

The meanings on the face of woe,

Assured that no mock shower is shed

Of tears upon the realldead,

Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss,

When bending o'er the death-like cheek

Of one who scarcely seems alive,
At every cold but breathing kiss,
He hears a saving angel speak—
"Thy love will yet revive!"

MY MISTRESS.

_ Translated from Calderon. It certainly shames the cold and unimaginative lovers of the north.

The cradle of the infant sun,

That scarf d in purple clouds and dun,

Kisses the dewy tear-drops up,

Shed in the flowret's odorous cup—

The budding, spring-awaken'd rose,

That, proudly bursting its green prison,

Proclaims that April has arisen,

And over the laughing gardens goes,

While mid the mild frosts gently-wrinkling,

The tears that morning weeps from heaven

In smile and sparkle earth are sprinkling;

The streamlet that has vainly striven

To bubble its harmonious story

Between these lips that ice confines

And seals awhile;—the pink that shines

A coral star of transient glory,—

The golden-plumaged bird, that shows

All gaudy tints upon its wing,

A feather'd harp, that still doth sing

To the water, murmuring

Sweet music, as it onward flows:—

The rock that can deceive the sun,

Who would dissolve it with his ray;

Its snowy outwork may be won,

But the rock melts not away—

The laurel tree, which bathes its foot

In the snows it tramples down;

A green narcissus, fearing not

The lightnings which it turns aside,

Or wears for an innocuous crown,

Daring the fires above deride.

Or the frost about its root,—

In fine, the cradle, and the light,
The purple clouds, the streams, the rose,
The bird that passions through the night,
The morn, that raining tear-drops, throws
Its smile on earth,—the crimson pink
Stooping over the fountain's brink :—
These are the portions which combine
In her, of women most divine.

THE CLIFFS OF THE ISLE OF WIGHT. By a young Swede, named Theodore Elbert.

The cliffs that rise in stately show
To rampart thee, thou fairy land,

How calm they hear the ocean's flow,
And shade with solemn brows the strand.

They have a quiet joy to meet
The gentle murmur of the waves,

That pleased embrace their aged feet,
And play and laugh around their caves.

The deep blue main and sportful foam
Methinks have voices in their swell,

That say, Come, make thy daily home
With that bright sea thou lov'st so well.

And here, in truth, so sweet and wild,

So lone and beautiful the spot, In it might live the ocean's child,

As in his own familiar grot.

And here is many a secret nook,
For eyes on nature wont to feed,

Where the sea ripples like a brook
Around the turfs of dark-brown weed.

Haunts of the billow and the breeze,
Retreats grotesque, and cool, and dim,

O! tell me, better than in these,
Where might I rest each wearied limb?

The wide and mighty main should be

My father, brother, trusted friend; To the old wisdom of the sea

My thoughts, my heart, I here might lend.

And he with every wave should teach
Knowledge so deep, and free, and high,

The scanty sounds of human speech
Have nought of truth with it to vie:

And I my spirit would control

Into the child's subservient mood; And daily fill my grasping soul

With all he speaks of wise and good.

Then ought I not the crowd to flee,

Their thoughts despise, their deeds abhor;

And make the pure and holy sea
My playmate and my monitor?

Aye, but the universal love,

The instincts each to all that bind! The blessed boon from him above

To the vast brotherhood, mankind!

And God's own word which bade us cling,

Heart unto heart, and hand to hand! Who hath the evil strength to fling

From oif his heart this inmost band?

And I had rather live my days

The tenant of a dungeon's gloom, Where nought of heaven's fresh brightness plays,

And chains each wasting limb consume;

So might I find some heart to blend

In free communion with mine own, Than make the boundless sea my friend,

With none but him to hear my moan.

MONT BLANC.
By L. E. L. (Miss Landon.)

Thou monarch of the upper air,

Thou mighty temple given

For morning's earliest of light,

And evening's last of heaven.

The vapour from the marsh, the smoke

From crowded cities sent,

Are purified before they reach

Thy loftier element.

Thy hues are not of earth but heaven;

Only the sunset rose

Hath leave to fling a crimson dye

Upon thy stainless snows.

Now out on those adventurers

Who scaled thy breathless height,

And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc,

A thing for common sight.

Before that human step had felt

Its sully on thy brow,

The glory of thy forehead made

A shrine to those below:

Men gazed upon thee as a star,

And turn'd to earth again,

With dreams like thine own floating clouds,

The vague but not the vain.

No feelings are less vain than those

That bear the mind away,

Till blent with nature's mysteries

It half forgets its clay.

It catches loftier impulses;

And owns a nobler power;

The poet and philosopher

Are born of such an hour.

But now where may we seek a place
For any spirit's dream;
Our steps have been o'er every soil,
Our sails o'er every stream.

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