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INDIAN.

Such a one Is he who was the winter of my peace. But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart From the far hills, where rise the springs of India, How didst thou pass the intervening sea ?

LADY.

If I be sure I am not dreaming now,
I should not doubt to say it was a dream.

THE ISLE.

THERE was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven :
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,

Each a gem engraven.
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave

A lake's blue chasm.

THE INVITATION.

Best and brightest, come away,
Fairer far than this fair day,
Which like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found it seems the halcyon morn,
To hoar February born;
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the earth,
And smiled

upon

the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed

upon

the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May, Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.

Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs-
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music, lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind

While the touch of Nature's art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
I leave this notice on my door
For each accustomed visitor:-
· I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields ;-
Reflection, you may come to-morrow,
Sit by the fireside of Sorrow.-
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,
I will

pay you in the grave,
Death will listen to your stave.-
Expectation too, be off!
To-day is for itself enough ;
Hope in pity mock not woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go ;
Long having lived on thy sweet food,
At length I find one moment good
After long pain—with all your love,
This you never told me of.”

Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
Round stems that never kiss the sun,
Where the lawns and pastures be
And the sandhills of the sea,
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue,

Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dim and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one,
In the universal sun,

THE RECOLLECTION.

Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise !
Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow.

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We wandered to the Pine Forest

That skirts the Ocean's foam, The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep,

The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,

Which scattered from above the sun

A light of Paradise.

II.

We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced. And soothed by every azure breath,

That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own ;
Now all the tree tops lay asleep,

Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep

The ocean woods may be.

III.

How calm it was !-the silence there

By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker

Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew. There seemed from the remotest seat

Of the wide mountain waste, To the soft flower beneath our feet,

A magic circle traced,
A spirit interfused around

A thrilling silent life,
To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife;-
And still I felt the centre of

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