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If love lives when pleasure dies,
We will love, till in our eyes
This heart's Hell seem Paradise.

V.

Come, be happy!-lie thee down
On the fresh grass newly mown,
Where the Grasshopper doth sing
Merrily-one joyous thing
In a world of sorrowing!

VI.

There our tent shall be the willow,
And thine arm shall be my pillow;

Sounds and odours, sorrowful

Because they once were sweet, shall lull
Us to slumber, deep and dull.

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:
Round my neck thine arms enfold-
They are soft, but chill and dead;
And thy tears upon my head
Burn like points of frozen lead.

IX.

Hasten to the bridal bed-
Underneath the grave 'tis spread:
In darkness may our love be hid,
Oblivion be our coverlid—

We may rest, and none forbid.

X.

Clasp me till our hearts be grown
Like two shadows into one;
Till this dreadful transport may
Like a vapour fade away,

In the sleep that lasts alway.

XI.

We may dream, in that long sleep,
That we are not those who weep;
E'en as Pleasure dreams of thee,
Life-deserting Misery,

Thou mayst dream of her with me.

XII.

Let us laugh, and make our mirth,
At the shadows of the earth,

As dogs bay the moonlight clouds,
Which, like spectres wrapped in shrouds,
Pass o'er night in multitudes.

XIII.

All the wide world, beside us,
Show like multitudinous

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
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

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,
thrown:

I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

III.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
.Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,

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,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not,—and yet regret,

Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

TO MARY

O MARY dear, that you were here
With your brown eyes bright and clear,
And your sweet voice, like a bird
Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate
Voice the sweetest ever heard!

And your brow more

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Mary dear, come to me soon,
I am not well whilst thou art far;
As sunset to the spherèd moon,
As twilight to the western star,
Thou, beloved, art to me.

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O Mary dear, that you were here;
The Castle echo whispers "Here!"

SONG, ON A FADED VIOLET.

I.

THE odour from the flower is gone
Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
The colour from the flower is flown
Which glowed of thee and only thee!

II.

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm,
With cold and silent rest.

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
Satiate the hungry dark with melody;-
And as a vale is watered by a flood,

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