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XXXII.

O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep!
-Strange heart of man! that ev'n 'midst woe swells
high,

When through the foam he sees his proud bark sweep,
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky!
Yes! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind;
His spirit rises with the rising wind;

or, wedded to the far futurity,

o, on, it bears him ever, and the main

as rushing, like his hope, some happier shore to gain.

ns is woman.

XXXIII

Closely her still heart rine itself with ev'n each lifeless thing, long remember'd, seem'd to bear its part

calm joys. For er would cling,

ne,

Dear,

XXXIV.

I look'd on Leonor, and if there seem'd
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise,
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleam'd,
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes,
Misty with tender gloom; I call'd it nought
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought
Of her own vale, with all its melodies

Oh! could we live in visions! could we hold
Delusion faster, longer, to our breast,
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold,
That which we see not, and are therefore blest!
But they, our loved and loving, they to whom
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom,
Their looks and accents, unto ours address'd,

Have been a language of familiar tone

Too long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and unknown.

XXXVI.

I told my heart 'twas but the exile's woe

Which press'd on that sweet bosom ;-I deceived

My heart but half :-a whisper faint and low,

Haunting it ever, and at times believed,

Spoke of some deeper cause.

How oft we seem

Like those that dream, and know the while they dream, 'Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved,

And troubled, while bright phantoms round them play,

By a dim sense that all will float and fade away!

XXXVII.

Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo'd the breeze,

To speed me onward with the wings of morn.
-Oh! far amidst the solitary seas,

Which were not made for man, what man hath borne,
Answering their moan with his!-what thou didst bear,
My lost and loveliest! while that secret care
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn
By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last,
Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast!

XXXVIII.

For unto thee, as through all change, reveal'd Mine inward being lay. In other eyes I had to bow me yet, and make a shield, To fence my burning bosom, of disguise; By the still hope sustain'd, ere long to win Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within, My thoughts unfetter'd to their source might rise, Like songs and scents of morn.--But thou didst look Through all my soul, and thine even unto fainting shook.

XXXIX.

Fall'n, fall'n, I seem'd-yet, oh! not less beloved,
Though from thy love was pluck'd the early pride,
And harshly, by a gloomy faith reproved,

And sear'd with shame!-though each young flower

had died,

There was the root,—strong, living, not the less

That all it yielded now was bitterness;

Yet still such love as quits not misery's side,
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace,

Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face.