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Her lips and cheeks were like things dead—so

pale; Her hands were thin, and through their wan

dering veins And weak articulations might be seen Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day, Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

“Inheritor of more than earth can give,
Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest,
And are the uncomplaining things they seem,
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love;
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were-

Peace!”
This was the only moan she ever made.

FRAGMENT ON HOME.

DEAR home, thou scene of earliest hopes and

joys, The least of which wronged Memory ever makes Bitterer than all thine unremembered tears.

FRAGMENT OF A GHOST-STORY.

A SHOVEL of his ashes took
From the hearth's obscurest nook,
Muttering mysteries as she went.
Helen and Henry knew that Granny
Was as much afraid of ghosts as any,

And so they followed hard-
But Helen clung to her brother's arm,
And her own spasm made her shake.

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817.

MARIANNE'S DREAM.'

A PALE dream came to a Lady fair,

And said, “A boon, a boon, I pray!
I know the secrets of the air,

And things are lost in the glare of day,
Which I can make the sleeping see,
If they will put their trust in me.

II.

And thou shalt know of things unknown,

If thou wilt let me rest between
The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown

Over thine eyes so dark and sheen:”
And half in hupe, and half in fright,
The Lady closed her eyes so bright.

III.
At first all deadly shapes were driven

Tumultuously across her sleep,
And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven

All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep;
And the Lady ever looked to spy
If the golden sun shone forth on high.

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And, as towards the east she turned,

She saw aloft in the morning air, Which now with hues of sunrise burned,

A great black Anchor rising there; i Mrs. Leigh Hunt, the “ Marianne” of this poem, dreamed the dream in question and related it to Shelley.-ED.

And wherever the Lady turned her eyes.
It hung before her in the skies.

The sky was blue as the summer sea,

The depths were cloudless over head,
The air was calm as it could be,

There was no sight or sound of dread,
But that black Anchor floating still
Over the piny eastern hill..

VI.
The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear,

To see that Anchor ever hanging,
And veiled her eyes; she then did hear

The sound as of a dim low clanging,
And looked abroad if she might know
Was it aught else, or but the flow
Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro.

VII.

There was a mist in the sunless air,
Which shook as it were with an earthquake's

shock,
But the very weeds that blossomed there

Were moveless, and each mighty rock
Stood on its basis steadfastly;
The Anchor was seen no more on high.

VIII.

But piled around, with summits hid

In lines of cloud at intervals, Stood many a mountain pyramid

Among whose everlasting walls Two mighty cities shone, and ever Through the red mist their domes did quiver.

IX. On two dread mountains, from whose crest

Might seem, the eagle, for her brood,
Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest,

Those tower-encircled cities stood.
A vision strange such towers to see,
Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously,
Where human art could never be.

And columns framed of marble white,

And giant fanes, dome over dome Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright

With workmanship, which could not come From touch of mortal instrument, Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent From its own shapes magnificent.

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But still the Lady heard that clang

Filling the wide air far away;
And still the mist whose light did hang

Among the mountains shook alway,
So that the Lady's heart beat fast,
As half in joy, and half aghast,
On those high domes her look she cast.

XII.
Sudden from out that city sprung

A light that made the earth grow red; Two flames that each with quivering tongue

Licked its high domes, and over head
Among those mighty towers and fanes
Dropped fire, as a volcano rains
Its sulphurous ruin on the plains.

XIII.
And hark! a rush as if the deep

Had burst its bonds; she looked behind
And saw over the western steep

A raging flood descend, and wind
Through that wide vale; she felt no fear,
But said within herself, “ 'Tis clear
These towers are Nature's own, and she
To save them has sent forth the sea.”

XIV.
And now those raging billows came

Where that fair Lady sate, and she
Was borne towards the showering flame

By the wild waves heaped tumultuously;
And, on a little plank, the flow
Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro.

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The flames? were fiercely vomited

From every tower and every dome, And dreary light did widely shed

O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, Beneath the smoke which hung its night On the stained cope of heaven's light.

XVI. The plank whereon that Lady sate Was driven through the chasms, about and

about, Between the peaks so desolate

Of the drowning mountains, in and out, As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sailsWhile the flood was filling those hollow vales.

i The word waves stood here till Mr. Rossetti substituted flames, which is unquestionably right. -ED.

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