List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, As, with dews and sunrise fed, Comes the laughing morning wind ;- Which fervid from its mountain source It sweeps into the affrighted sea; The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove A LAMENT. SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Art thou come and gone: As the earth when leaves are dead, The swallow Summer comes again, To fly with thee, false as thou. My heart each day desires the morrow, Sunny leaves from any bough. Lilies for a bridal bed, Violets for a maiden dead, Pansies let my flowers be: On the living grave I bear, Waste one hope, one fear for me. ΤΟ I. THE serpent is shut out from paradise. The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower, I too, must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. II. Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; Itself indifferent. But, not to speak of love, pity alone Turns the mind's poison into food,- III. Therefore if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : I scarce can bear; yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. IV. When I return to my cold home, you ask Of acting a forced part on life's dull scene,- In the world's Carnival. I sought V. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot And if this meant a vision long since fled— To speak what you may know too well: VI. The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. VII. I asked her, yesterday, if she believed Would ne'er have thus relieved *See Faust. His heart with words,—but what his judgment bade To send to you, but that I know, THE AZIOLA. 66 Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh," Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere the stars were lit, or candles brought; And I, who thought This Aziola was some tedious woman, Asked, "Who is Aziola?" How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear and hate! And Mary saw my soul, And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not, 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl." Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side, And fields and marshes wide,— Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirred; Unlike and far sweeter than they all: Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry. |