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Be braided nevermore ?
O dreadful is the world of dreams, When all that world a chaos seems Of thoughts so fix'd before ! When heaven's own face is tinged with blood ! And friends cross o'er our solitude, Now friends of ours no more! Or, dearer to our hearts than ever, Keep stretching forth with vain endeavour, Their pale and palsied hands, To clasp us phantoms, as we go Along the void like drifting snow, To far-off namėless lands ! Yet all the while we know not why, Nor where those dismal regions lie, Half hoping that a curse so deep And wild can only be in sleep, And that some overpowering scream Will break the fetters of the dream, And let us back to waking life, Fill'd though it be with care and strife ; Since there at least the wretch can know The meanings on the face of woe, Assured that no mock shower is shed Of tears upon the real dead, Or that his bliss, indeed, is bliss, When bending o'er the death-like cheek
Of one who scarcely seems alive,
MY MISTRESS. Translated from CALDERON. It certainly shames the cold and unimaginative lovers of the north.
The cradle of the infant sun,
In fine, the cradle, and the light,
THE CLIFFS OF THE ISLE OF WIGHT. By a young Swede, named THEODORE ELBERT. The cliffs that rise in stately show
To rampart thee, thou fairy land, How calm they hear the ocean's flow,
And shade with solemn brows the strand.
They have a quiet joy to meet
The gentle murmur of the waves, That pleased embrace their aged feet,
And play and laugh around their caves. The deep blue main and sportful foam
Methinks have voices in their swell, That say, Come, make thy daily home
With that bright sea thou lov'st so well.
And here, in truth, so sweet and wild,
So lone and beautiful the spot, In it might live the ocean's child,
As in his own familiar grot.
And here is many a secret nook,
For eyes on nature wont to feed, Where the sea ripples like a brook
Around the turfs of dark-brown weed.
Haunts of the billow and the breeze,
Retreats grotesque, and cool, and dim, O! tell me, better than in these,
Where might I rest each wearied limb?
The wide and mighty main should be
My father, brother, trusted friend;
And he with every wave should teach
Knowledge so deep, and free, and high, The scanty sounds of human speech
Have nought of truth with it to vie :
And I my spirit would control
Into the child's subservient mood; And daily fill my grasping soul
With all he speaks of wise and good.
Then ought I not the crowd to flee,
Their thoughts despise, their deeds abhor ; And make the pure and holy sea
My playmate and my monitor ?
Aye, but the universal love,
The instincts each to all that bind! The blessed boon from him above
To the vast brotherhood, mankind !
And God's own word which bade us cling,
Heart unto heart, and hand to hand! Who hath the evil strength to fling
From off his heart this inmost band ?
And I had rather live my days
The tenant of a dungeon's gloom, Where nought of heaven's fresh brightness plays,
And chains each wasting limb consume ; So might I find some heart to blend
In free communion with mine own, Than make the boundless sea my friend,
With none but him to hear my moan.
By L. E. L. (Miss LANDON.)
Thou monarch of the upper air,
Now out on those adventurers
But now where may we seek a place