ADELINE.

I.

MYSTERY of mysteries,

Faintly smiling Adeline,

Scarce of earth nor all divine,

Nor unhappy, nor at rest,

But beyond expression fair

With thy floating flaxen hair;

Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes

Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine,

Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ?

II.

Whence that aery bloom of thine,
Like a lily which the sun
Looks thro' in his sad decline,

And a rose-bush leans upon,
Thou that faintly smilest still,
As a Naiad in a well,

Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old

Of a maiden past away,

こ

Ere the placid lips be cold?

Wherefore those faint smiles of thine,

Spiritual Adeline ?

III.

What hope or fear or joy is thine?

Who talketh with thee, Adeline?

For sure thou art not all alone.

Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own?

Hast thou heard the butterflies

What they say betwixt their wings?
Or in stillest evenings

With what voice the violet woos

To his heart the silver dews?

Or when little airs arise,

How the merry bluebell rings

To the mosses underneath?

Hast thou look'd upon the breath

Of the lilies at sunrise?

Wherefore that faint smile of thine,

Shadowy, dreaming Adeline?

IV.

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind,
Some spirit of a crimson rose

In love with thee forgets to close

His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind.

What aileth thee? whom waitest thou

With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow,

And those dew-lit eyes of thine,

Thou faint smiler, Adeline?

V.

Lovest thou the doleful wind

When thou gazest at the skies ?

Doth the low-tongued Orient

Wander from the side of the morn,
Dripping with Sabæan spice

On thy pillow, lowly bent

With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-drooping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays,

And ye talk together still,

In the language wherewith Spring
Letters cowslips on the hill?

Hence that look and smile of thine,

Spiritual Adeline.

MARGARET.

I.

SWEET pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail

As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

have won

Between the rainbow and the sun.

The very smile before you speak,

That dimples your transparent cheek,
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth

The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound,

Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.

II.

You love, remaining peacefully,

To hear the murmur of the strife,

But enter not the toil of life.

Your spirit is the calmed sea,

Laid by the tumult of the fight.

You are the evening star, alway

Remaining betwixt dark and bright:

Lull'd echoes of laborious day

Come to you, gleams of mellow light
Float by you on the verge of night.

III.

What can it matter, Margaret,

What songs below the waning stars

The lion-heart, Plantagenet,

Sang looking thro' his prison bars?
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell

The last wild thought of Chatelet,
Just ere the falling axe did part

The burning brain from the true heart,
Even in her sight he loved so well?