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Dewy with tear drops the bright day is fading

Turning away a face sorrowing fair; Holy tranquility's stillness is shading

The sound of the waterfall under the weir.

White mists are rising o'er nature reposing ;

One-only one vigil star-
Other dear eyes far away sleep is closing;

Distant-ah! true heart, how far !

High in the zenith night's planet is beaming,

And where the waters flow deep;
Restlessly mirrored its image is gleaming,

Washed by the wavelets asleep.
So in our heart's life, dear loved one! deep sinking

Joy's mirrored reflection still glows-
And in sleep's ebon river from dream waves is drinking,

As they lave happy thoughts in repose.

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I wake before the day and watch

The opal dawnings rise ;
I hear the morning's joyous hymn,

And think of Nena's eyes.

Lost in the deep dim forest where

The plaintive cushat cries,
I ponder, past the hour of noon,

On Nena's dark brown eyes.

I linger by the stilly lake

Till pale the moonbeam lies;
Nor ever absent from my thoughts

Are Nena's dark brown eyes.

The curtain's folds are closed at last,

The lamp, extinguished, dies :
I sleep,-and see in happy dreams

Dear Nena's dark brown eyes.

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A little ivory face, of hue between
The lily and magnolia's richer bloom.
Thick folds of deepest auburn hair divine;
Rich crown of glory to a matchless form.
Teeth white and perfect as the shining keys
New from the artist makers skilful hand;
Waiting the touch of genius to evoke
The tones of music's sweetest cadences.
Hypocrite face of tranquil fizeðness !
Calm, coldly silent, as the gelid snow
With which stern winter clothes volcanic hills.
Do summer suns ne'er melt those mountain snows?
Or do the fires weaker burn beneath
Because of their cold niveous shrouds of white ?
With the sun full upon them are they quite
Uninfluenced' by the magic of his rays ?
Doth not the lily, pale with passion, tell
The truth more plainly than doth any rose ?
Calm, cold, dear face! thy coldness is a mask
Worn butíto hide heart-centred fires of love !



Ah those mournful, mournful waves !

Plashing on the lonely shore,
Feed a tide that coldly laves


My lorn bosom evermore;

With gelid waves
Plashing on a lonely shore,


Love a lover's wrongs doth wreak,

For vain woman's mocking wile;
Nevermore to hear him speak!
Nevermore to watch his smile !

Never! but to hear, forlorn,

Those mournful waves
Plashing on the weary shore.

Cruel when we should be kind !

Coldness killed my passion flower:
And its shrinking tendrils bind

Tighter round my heart each hour;

As I sorrowing sit and gloar,

By the foam-vexed shingled shore,
Where the curlews swoop and soar.
Mingled with the ceaseless roar,

Sounds a wail of “Nevermore,"

Moaning always Nevermore."

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Bring a palette-box and pencil for a sketch in water

colours :Take some greyish blue to put in for those gates of

ancient make, Such as Matsys might have wrought at, ere with canvas Indian red and Roman ochre, with a tinge of pale ver

maul and muller. He unvulcanized his smithy for a beauteous maiden's


milion, For the moulded piers of red brick reared when reigned

our great Queen Bess; And a crimson-lake stain here is, like a dash of old

roussillon, Just one bright part kept unfaded in Times's weather

beaten dress.

Through the writhed fantastic grille-work, faintly show

each Doric column, And the dentil cornice over, running down the left

hand side Of our picture, looking partly like a classic temple

solemn, With a modern clock tower over and a vane in gilded



All along those Doric bases runs a pathway much neg

lected, Leading on through yew tree archways to a pinery at


And a dial sun directed, that will tell you if inspected, It has never marked an hour that serenely has not

passed. *

Indian yellow, blue, and carmine ; for the white streaked

tulips growing On the dexter side, where daffodils look like gamboge

old maids ; And the margins all unshorn are, in the want of care

bestowing, And the gillie-flowers are rain-drenched, and their

golden umber fades. On the walls that meet the gate piers, changing leaves

the ivy freckle,

And a white thorn throws its shadow on the pathway

where we stand; And, two glorious oaks embracing, spangling sunbeams

sparkling speckle, Where the foliage fails in shutting out the light on

either hand.

Now a splash of smalt or cobalt for the sky that backs

the griffin, Looking much exasperated and remarkably unwell; Mourning for his brother, missing! but as I must go to

tiffin, With dark green and brown we'll fill up ere they ring

that tocsin bell.

So the aquarelle is finished, and cui bono? was the time,

in Reproducing such a picture, worth the subject some

may ask, Yes, this scribbling, and this rhyming, and the grateful

thoughts that chime in Are all votive to a loving face well worth a harder task.



On her silken tresses,

On her forehead too;
On her cheeks warm crimson,
On her sweet lips true;

On each dazzling shoulder,

Where the opal dress Folds towards her girdle,–

Leave a pure caress.

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