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I swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd
The purpose and the substance of my being,
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,
I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers. -
Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower
I now will go—all objects there will teach me
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her-
Say nothing of me-I myself will seek her-
Nay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye.-

[Earl Henry retires into the wood.] Sandoval (alone]. O Henry! always strivest

thou to be great
By thine own act—yet art thou never great
But by the inspiration of great passion.
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
And shape themselves : from earth to heaven they

As though they were the pillars of a temple,
Built by Omnipotence in its own honour !
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand,
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins !

AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ;

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Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, Pity,

hark ! Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings,

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark !

“ Cling to the shrouds !” In vain ! The breakers

roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man !

Say then, what Muse inspired these genial strains

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the


Of gratitude ! remembrances of friend,

Or absent or no more ! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance ! Hence to thee I

send, O dear as long as life and memory last !

I send with deep regards of heart and head,
Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to

thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me:

THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneeling

He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive

guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd, Sickness within and miserable feeling : Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams : Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he

wouldFor Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost !

For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone !
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams
(So the love-stricken visionary deems)
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide

bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.



OFT, oft methinks, the while with thee,

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear
A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of Wife !

A pulse of love that ne'er can sleep!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert,
That gladness half requests to weep!

Nor bless I not the keener sense
And unalarming turbulence

Of transient joys, that ask no sting

From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing,

And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Resign the soul to love again ;-

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go,
And leave their sweeter understrain

Its own sweet self-a love of thee
That seems, yet cannot greater be!



OW warm this woodland wild Recess ! !

Love surely hath been breathing here; And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! Swells up, then sinks with faint

caress, As if to have you yet more near.


Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.


No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sigh?

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