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A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark, Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray,

Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark,
Like crafty serpents climbing for a prey,
With many blasted oaks moss-grown and gray.
But here upon his final desperate clause

Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain,
Like a pang'd nightingale, it made him pause,
Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain,
The sad remainder oozing from his brain
In timely ecstasies of healing tears,

Which through his ardent eyes began to drain;— Meanwhile the deadly fates unclosed their shears ;So pity me and all my fated peers.

FAIR INES.

Он, saw ye not fair Ines?

She's gone into the west,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest:
She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.

Oh turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier
Who rode so gayly by thy side,

And whisper'd thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,

And banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,

And snowy plumes they wore;

It would have been a beauteous dream, -If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,

She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng;

But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only music's wrong,

In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!

SIGH ON, SAD HEART!

SIGH on, sad heart, for love's eclipse,
And beauty's fairest queen,
Though 't is not for my peasant lips
To soil her name between:
A king might lay his sceptre down,
But I am poor and nought,
The brow should wear a golden crown,
That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair,
Whose sudden beams surprise,
Might bid such humble hopes beware
The glancing of her eyes:
Yet looking once, I look'd too long,
And if my love is sin,
Death follows on the heels of wrong,
And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves
It was so pure and fine,

Oh lofty wears, and lowly weaves,

But hoddan gray is mine;
And homely hose must step apart,
Where garter'd princes stand,
But may he wear my love at heart
That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frize
To silks and satin gowns,
But I doubt if God made like degrees,
In courtly hearts and clowns.
My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth,
And brought her cheeks to blame,
And all that's lordly of my birth,
Is my reproach and shame!

"Tis vain to weep-'tis vain to sigh,
"Tis vain this idle speech,
For where her happy pearls do lie,

My tears may never reach;
Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride
May say of what has been,
His love was nobly born and died,
Though all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude, but speech is weak
Such love as mine to tell,

Yet had I words, I dare not speak,
So, lady, fare thee well;

I will not wish thy better state
Was one of low degree,
But I must weep that partial fate
Made such a churl of me.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"
"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,-
If THIS is Christian work!
"Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work-work-work,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band;

Band, and gusset, and seam; Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in my dream!

"Oh! men with sisters dear!

Oh! men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A SHROUD as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone;
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own!
It seems so like my own-

Because of the fast I keep;

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags:

A shatter'd roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime;
Work-work-work,

As prisoners work, for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam;

Seam, and gusset, and band;

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd

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While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet;
With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet;
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope;
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart-
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread;
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dolorous pitchWould that its tone could reach the rich!She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

SILENCE.

THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave-under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found, [found;
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep pro-
No voice is hush'd-no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls

Of antique palaces, where man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,

And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, There the true silence is, self-conscious and alone.

DEATH.

IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this, but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft,-and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.

A RUSTIC ODE.

On! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, “O rus!"
Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!
What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parch'd, my eyeballs burn;
I scent no flowery gust:
But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,

And turns me "dust to dust."

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no eastern dews;

The path is dry and hot!
His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,

But down a chimney's pot!

Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe,
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort,-alas!
That makes no hay, call'd sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue!

Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet!
I think of cowslip-cups,-but meet
With very vile rebuffs!

For meadow buds, I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuff's.
How tenderly Rousseau review'd
His periwinkles! mine are stew'd!
My rose blooms on a gown!
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign

That marks the Bell and Crown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gayly sing

Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchmen is my Philomel,

My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush!
That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdis, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,

Are all my "tuneful throng."
Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams,
And colours of the skies?
My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes.

Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,

Singing in soothing tones: Not thus the city streamlets flow; They make no music as they go, Though never "off the stones."

Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.
The pipe whereon, in olden day,
The Arcadian herdsmen used to play
Sweetly, here soundeth not;
But merely breathes unwelcome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes

The rank weed-" piping hot."

All rural things are vilely mock'd,
On every hand the sense is shock'd

With objects hard to bear:
Shades-vernal shades! where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers, And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons?

Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more!
See Hatton's Garden brick'd all o'er;
And that bare wood,-St. John's.

No pastoral scene procures me peace;
I hold no leasowes in my lease,
No cot set round with trees:
No sleep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And omnium furnishes my banks

With brokers, not with bees.

Oh! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh, “O rus!"

Of city pleasures sick :

My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades,-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick.

FROM AN ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

OH! clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, And do not take my tears amiss;

For tears must flow to wash away

A thought that shows so stern as this: Forgive, if somewhile I forget,

In wo to come, the present bliss.

As frighted Proserpine let fall

Her flowers at the sight of Dis,

Even so the dark and bright will kiss. The sunniest things throw sternest shade, And there is even a happiness

That makes the heart afraid!

Now let us with a spell invoke

The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud Lapp'd all about her, let her rise All pale and dim, as if from rest The ghost of the late buried sun Had crept into the skies.

The moon! she is the source of sighs,

The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times

The same calm quiet look she had, As if the world held nothing base,

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; The same fair light that shone in streams, The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad; For so it is, with spent delights

She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad All things are touch'd with melancholy,

Born of the secret soul's mistrust, To feel her fair ethereal wings

Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust; Even the bright extremes of joy

Bring on conclusions of disgust,
Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
Whose fragrance ends in must.

Oh give her, then, her tribute just,
Her sighs and tears, and musings holy!
There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There's not a string attuned to mirth,
But has its chord in melancholy.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember,

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses-red and white;
The violets and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

LADY, wouldst thou heiress be,
To winter's cold and cruel part?
When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart;Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, But in the whiteness of thy brow? Scorn and cold neglect are made

For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind,— Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flower, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup?

Let not cold December sit

Thus in love's peculiar throne ;Brooklets are not prison'd now,

But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May!

LOVE.

LOVE, dearest lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humour of the eye;-
Not being but an outward phantasy,
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,-
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak,
As if the rose made summer,-and so lie
Amongst the perishable things that die,
Unlike the love which I would give and seek:
Whose health is of no hue-to feel decay
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime.
Love is its own great loveliness alway,

And takes new lustre from the touch of time;
Its bough owns no December and no May,
But bears its blossom into winter's clime.

BY A LOVER.

Br every sweet tradition of true hearts,
Graven by time, in love with his own lore;

By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts,
Wherein love died to be alive the more;
Yea, by the sad impression on the shore,

Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear
That coast for ever, where the billow's roar
Moaneth for pity in the poet's ear;
By Hero's faith, and the forboding tear
That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall;
By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear
That sigh'd around her flight; I swear by all,
The world shall find such pattern in my act,
As if love's great examples still were lack'd.

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