From which it came, and I departed
Heeding not the words then spoken.
Misery-O Misery,

This world is all too wide for thee.

LINES.

I.

THAT time is dead for ever, child,
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!
We look on the past

And stare aghast

At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled
To death on life's dark river.

II.

The stream we gazed on then rolled by;
Its waves are unreturning;

But we yet stand

In a lone land,

Like tombs to mark the memory

Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life's dim morning.

DEATH.

I.

THEY die-the dead return not-Misery

Sits near an open grave and calls them over, A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eyeThey are the names of kindred, friend and lover,

Which he so feebly calls-they all are gone!

Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone,

This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.

II.

Misery, my sweetest friend-oh! weep no more!

Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not! For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door Watch the calm sunset with them, and this

spot

Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.

OTHO.

I.

THOU wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,

Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim

From Brutus his own glory-and on thee

Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame; Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail Amid his cowering senate with thy name, Though thou and he were great—it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.

II.

'Twill wrong thee not-thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel,

Abjure such envious fame-great Otho died

Like thee-he sanctified his country's steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,
In his own blood-a deed it was to bring
Tears from all men-though full of gentle
pride,

Such pride as from impetuous love may spring,
That will not be refused its offering.

III.

Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil, Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind,

Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind Fed hopes of its redemption, these recur

Chastened by deathful victory now, and find Foundations in this foulest age, and stir Me whom they cheer to be their minister.

IV.

Dark is the realm of grief: but human things Those may not know who cannot weep for them.

*

V.

Once more descend

The shadows of my soul upon mankind, For to those hearts with which they never blend, Thoughts are but shadows which the flashing

mind

From the swift clouds which track its flight of

fire,

Casts on the gloomy world it leaves behind.

*

FRAGMENT OF A SONG.

O THAT a chariot of cloud were mine!
Of cloud which the wild tempest weaves in

air,

When the moon over the ocean's line

Is spreading the locks of her bright grey

hair.

O that a chariot of cloud were mine!

I would sail on the waves of the billowy wind

To the mountain peak and the rocky lake,
And the ....

FRAGMENT: TO A FRIEND LEAVING PRISON.1

FOR me, my friend, if not that tears did tremble

In my faint eyes, and that my heart beat

fast

With feelings which make rapture pain resemble,

Yet, from thy voice that falsehood starts aghast,

I thank thee-let the tyrant keep

His chains and tears, yea let him weep
With rage to see thee freshly risen,

Like strength from slumber, from the prison, In which he vainly hoped the soul to bind Which on the chains must prey that fetter humankind.

Possibly a rejected passage for Rosalind and Helen.-ED.

FRAGMENT: SATAN LOOSE.

A GOLDEN-WINGED Angel stood
Before the Eternal Judgment-seat:
His looks were wild, and Devils' blood
Stained his dainty hands and feet.
The Father and the Son

Knew that strife was now begun.

They knew that Satan had broken his chain,
And, with millions of dæmons in his train,
Was ranging over the world again.
Before the Angel had told his tale,

A sweet and a creeping sound

ΙΟ

Like the rushing of wings was heard around; And suddenly the lamps grew pale—

The lamps, before the Archangels seven,

That burn continually in heaven.

TWO FRAGMENTS TO MUSIC.

I.

SILVER key of the fountain of tears,

Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild; Softest grave of a thousand fears,

Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child,

Is laid asleep in flowers.

II.

No, Music, thou art not the "food of Love," Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self, Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.