If I look on Spring's soft heaven,—
Something is not there which was.
Winter's wondrous frost and snow,
Summer's clouds, where are they now?

TO-MORROW.

WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?
When, young and old, and strong and weak,
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,

In thy place-ah well-a-day!—
We find the thing we fled-To-day.

THE AZIOLA.

"Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh,"
Said Mary, as we sate

In dusk, ere the stars were lit or candles brought.
And I, who thought

This Aziola was some tedious woman,
Asked "Who is Aziola ?"

How elate

I felt to know that it was nothing human,

No mockery of myself to fear and hate!
And Mary saw my soul,

And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not;
'Tis nothing but a little downy owl."

Sad Aziola! many an eventide

Thy music I had heard

By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,
And fields and marshes wide,-

Such as nor voice nor lute nor wind nor bird
The soul ever stirred;

Unlike and far sweeter than they all.
Sad Aziola! from that moment I

Loved thee and thy sad cry.

A LAMENT.

O WORLD! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before,-
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more-oh never more!

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight:

Fresh Spring, and Summer, Autumn, and Winter hoar,
Move my faint heart with grief,—but with delight
No more, oh never more!

REMEMBRANCE.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Art thou come and gone:
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

The swallow summer comes again,
The owlet night resumes her reign,
But the wild swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou.

My heart to-day desires to-morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead;
Pansies let my flowers be:

On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,
Waste a hope, a fear, for me,

TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.

I. THE serpent is shut out from paradise:

The wounded deer must seek the herb no more
In which its heart-cure lies:

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower
Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs
Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.

2. Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content;

Indifference, which once hurt me, is now grown

1

Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone
Can break a spirit already more than bent.
The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food,—

Its medicine is tears,-its evil good.

3. Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Your looks because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die :
The very comfort that they minister

I scarce can bear; yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,

Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
4. When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have lately been?
You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,-
Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival.

I sought

Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.

5. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot

With various flowers, and every one still said,
"She loves me,-loves me not.'

And if this meant a vision long since fled-
If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought-
If it meant-(but I dread

To speak what you may know too well)—

Still there was truth in the sad oracle.

6. The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;
No bird so wild but has its quiet nest

When it no more would roam;

The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast
Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam,
And thus at length find rest:
Doubtless there is a place of peace

Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease.

7. I asked her yesterday if she believed

That I had resolution. One who had

Would ne'er have thus relieved

His heart with words,-but what his judgment bad
Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.-
These verses were too sad

To send to you, but that I know,

Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.

ΤΟ

ONE word is too often profaned
For me to profane it ;

One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;

One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother;
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love :
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above,
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

TO

WHEN passion's trance is overpast
If tenderness and truth could last,
Or live whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep!

It were enough to feel, to see,
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest-and burn, and be
The secret food of fires unseen-
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.

After the slumber of the year

The woodland violets re-appear;

All things revive in field or grove,

And sky and sea,-but two, which move
And form all others, life and love.

A BRIDAL SONG.

THE golden gates of Sleep unbar,

Where Strength and Beauty, met together, Kindle their image, like a star

In a sea of glassy weather.

Night, with all thy stars look down-
Darkness, weep thy holiest dew!
Never smiled the inconstant moon
On a pair so true.

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