VOL. III.

Till joy denies itself again,

And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken ;
Your guardian spirit Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon

Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.

When you live again on earth,—
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.

Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has tracked your steps and served your will

Now, in humbler happier lot,

This is all remembered not;

And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave:

From you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile today, a song tomorrow.

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree while on the steep
The woods were in their winter-sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine

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On the wind-swept Apennine,
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love. And so this tree-
Oh that such our death may be !--
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again :

From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,

The artist wrought this loved Guitar,

And taught it justly to reply,

To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells.
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voicèd fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,

The melodies of birds and bees,

The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way.
All this it knows; but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The Spirit that inhabits it.
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone.

A DIRGE.

ROUGH wind that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song ;
Wild wind when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods whose branches stain,

Deep caves and dreary main,
Wail for the world's wrong!

TO JANE.

THE keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Jane :

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung them

Again.

As the moon's soft splendour

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
Tonight;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI.

SHE left me at the silent time

When the moon had ceased to climb

The azure path of heaven's steep,
And, like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean-nest
In the chambers of the west.
She left me; and I stayed alone,
Thinking over every tone

Which, though silent to the ear,

The enchanted heart could hear,

Like notes which die when born, but still

Haunt the echoes of the hill,

And feeling ever-oh too much!

The soft vibration of her touch,

As if her gentle hand even now
Lightly trembled on my brow.

And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her

That even Fancy dares to claim.

Her presence had made weak and tame

All passions, and I lived alone

In the time which is our own;
The past and future were forgot,
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The dæmon reassumed his throne

In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts; but thus disturbed and weak

I sat, and saw the vessels glide

Over the ocean bright and wide,

Like spirit-wingèd chariots sent
O'er some serenest element

For ministrations strange and far,
As if to some elysian star

They sailed for drink to medicine '
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine;
And the wind that winged their flight

From the land came fresh and light;
And the scent of wingèd flowers,
And the coolness of the hours

Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day,
Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay ;
And the fisher, with his lamp

And spear, about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,—
Destroying life alone, not peace!

EPITAPH.

THESE are two friends whose lives were undivided;
So let their memory be, now they have glided
Under the grave; let not their bones be parted,
For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.

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