If love lives when pleasure dies, V. Come, be happy!-lie thee down VI. There our tent shall be the willow, Sounds and odours, sorrowful Because they once were sweet, shall lull VII. Ha! thy frozen pulses flutter With a love thou darest not utter. Thou art murmuring-thou art weepingIs thine icy bosom leaping While my burning heart lies sleeping? VIII. Kiss me;-oh! thy lips are cold: IX. Hasten to the bridal bed- We may rest, and none forbid. X. Clasp me till our hearts be grown In the sleep that lasts alway. XI. We may dream, in that long sleep, Thou mayst dream of her with me. XII. Let us laugh, and make our mirth, As dogs bay the moonlight clouds, XIII. All the wide world, beside us, Puppets passing from a scene; What but mockery can they mean, Where I am-where thou hast been? STANZAS, WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. I. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear Like many a voice of one delight, II. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, I sit upon the sands alone, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. III. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, And walked with inward glory crowned-Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. IV. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. V. Some might lament that I were cold, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. TO MARY O MARY dear, that you were here And your brow more Mary dear, come to me soon, O Mary dear, that you were here; SONG, ON A FADED VIOLET. I. THE odour from the flower is gone II. A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, III. I weep,-my tears revive it not! I sigh, it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be. THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE. A WOODMAN whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon, One nightingale in an interfluous wood |