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That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene:
As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet- all brackish though they be,
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
THERE be none of beauty's daughters
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
And the midnight moon is weaving
As an infant's asleep :
So the spirit bows before thee,
FARE THEE WELL!
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain:
Doth work like madness in the brain:
FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well!
But never either found another
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
The marks of that which once hath been.
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'T was not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Even its praises must offend thee,
Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Still thine own its life retaineth
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
Than the wail above the dead;
Though his care she must forego?
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now. But 't is done-all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.Fare thee well!-thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie, Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blightedMore than this I scarce can die.
WHEN all around grew drear and dark, And reason half withheld her ray, And hope but shed a dying spark Which more misled my louely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
When fortune, changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light! That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend-the skies might pour,
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
The kind-and thee the most of all.
Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found, and still are fixed, in theeAnd bearing still a breast so tried, Earth is no desert-even to me.
[FROM THE FRENCH.]
We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
As then shall shake the world with wonder-
Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
When the soldier citizen
Till lone tyranny commanded? Till, goaded by ambition's sting, The hero sunk into the king? Then he fell;-so perish all, Who would men by man enthral!
And thou too of the snow-white plume!
On thy war-horse through the ranks, Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around theeOf the fate at last which found thee. Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once as the moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendancy,And as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest(There, with thunder-clouds to fan her, Who could then her wing arrest— Victory beaming from her breast?) While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain: There be sure was MURAT charging! There he ne'er shall charge again!.
See Rev. chap. viii, verse 7, etc. The first angel sounded, and there followed bail and fire mingled with blood, etc.
Verse 8. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood, etc.
Verse 10. And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters."
Verse 11. And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."
* Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
And they did live by watch-fires--and the thrones,
The pall of a past world; and then again
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd,
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.
I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed
With name no clearer than the names unknown,
The gardener of that ground, why it might be
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd. The wild birds Through the thick deaths of half a century;
And thus he answer'd-« Well, I do not know
I know not what of honour and of light