The magic circle there, Was one fair form that filled with love IV. We paused beside the pools that lie In which the lovely forests grew, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Of that fair forest green. And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Like one beloved the scene had lent Like an unwelcome thought, Which from the mind's too faithful eye Blots one dear image out. Though thou art ever fair and kind, The forests ever green, Less oft is peace in S's mind, Than calm in waters seen. ΤΟ THE keen stars were twinkling, And the fair moon was rising among them, Dear *** ! The guitar was tinkling, But the notes were not sweet till you sung them Again. As the moon's soft splendour O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven Is thrown, So your voice most tender To the strings without soul had then given Its own. The stars will awaken, Though the moon sleep a full hour later, No leaf will be shaken Whilst the dews of your melody scatter Delight. Though the sound overpowers, Sing again, with your dear voice revealing Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling LINES. WHEN the lamp is shattered, As music and splendour No song when the spirit is mute :— Like the wind through a ruined cell, That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possest. O, Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high: From thy nest every rafter Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. A DIRGE. ROUGH wind, that moanest loud Wild wind, when sullen cloud Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Wail, for the world's wrong. CHARLES THE FIRST. A FRAGMENT. ACT I. SCENE I.-The Pageant to celebrate the arrival of the Queen. What thinkest thou of this quaint masque, which turns Like morning from the shadow of the night, The night to day, and London to a place Of peace and joy? SECOND SPEAKER. And Hell to Heaven. Eight years are gone, And they seem hours, since in this populous street |