Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye,
Which the circumfluous plain waving below,
Like a wide lake of green fertility,

With streams and fields and marshes bare,
Divides from the far Apennines-which lie
Islanded in the immeasurable air.

"What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?

If morning dreams are true, why I should guess
That she was dreaming of our idleness,
And of the miles of watery way

We should have led her by this time of day."

"Never mind," said Lionel,

"Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see!

The white clouds are driving merrily,
And the stars we miss this morn will light
More willingly our return to-night.-
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair;
How it scatters Dominic's long black hair!
Singing of us, and our lazy motions,
If I can guess a boat's emotions."-

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As, with dews and sunrise fed,

Comes the laughing morning wind;-
The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,
And hangs upon the wave,

Which fervid from its mountain source

Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come,—
Swift as fire, tempestuously

It sweeps into the affrighted sea;
In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering,

Down one clear path of effluence crystalline
Sends its clear waves, that they may fling
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine:
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir,
It rushes to the Ocean.

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, and winter hoar. Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more-Oh, never more!

THE serpent is shut out from paradise.
The wounded deer must seek the herd 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.

II.

Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content;
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown
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.

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.

IV.

When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been?

You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part on 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.

V.

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.

*See Faust.

A LAMENT.

VI.

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.

VII.

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 bade
Would do, and leave the scorner unreprieved.
These verses are too sad

To send to you, but that I know,
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.

A LAMENT.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,

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 each day desires the 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 one hope, one fear for me.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me-who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream—
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O beloved as thou art !

O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast,
Oh press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

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?