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HELEN, thy beauty is to me
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche,
How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!
BIRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee !
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
To thee the reed is as the oak:
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-tone; Fear not slander, censure rash ;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
THE dews of summer night did fall ;
And many an oak that grew thereby.
Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs
That issued from that lonely pile.
'Leicester!' she cried, 'is this thy love
'No more thou com'st with lover's speed
I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
'Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall;
'I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
"If that my beauty is but small,
'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
'Then, Leicester, why,—again I plead, The injured surely may repine,— Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair Princess might be thine?
'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
'The village maidens of the plain
'How far less blest am I than them!
'My spirits flag-my hopes decay-
Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved
And ere the dawn of day appear'd,
The death-bell thrice was heard to ring;
The mastiff howl'd at village door,
The oaks were shatter'd on the green;
And in that manor now no more
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd,
W. F. MICKLE.
To a Skylark
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest:
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.
All the earth and air
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody :