Even so, throughout the midnight deep,
The silent moon doth seek the bosoms
Of those dear mermaid-girls asleep,

To feed its dying rays anew,
Like to the bee on earthly blossoms,
Upon their silvery whiteness,
And on the rainbow brightness
Of their eyelashes' dew,

And kisseth their limbs o'er:
Her lips where they do quaff
Strike starry tremors off,

As from the waves our oar.



T. L. BEDDoes.

SONGS are sung in my mind

As pearls are formed in the sea,
Each thought with thy name entwined
Becomes a sweet song in me.

Dimly those pale pearls shine,
Hidden under the sea,
Vague are those songs of mine,
So deeply they lie in me.



If solitude hath ever led thy steps
To the wild ocean's echoing shore,
And thou hast lingered there,
Until the sun's broad orb
Seemed resting on the burnished wave,
Thou must have marked the lines
Of purple gold, that motionless

Hung o'er the sinking sphere:
Thou must have marked the billowy clouds
Edged with intolerable radiancy,

Towering like rocks of jet

Crowned with a diamond wreath.

And yet there is a moment,
When the sun's highest point

Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge,
When those far clouds of feathery gold,
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam
Like islands on a dark blue sea;

Then has thy fancy soared above the earth,
And furled its wearied wing
Within the Fairy's fane.

Yet not the golden islands
Gleaming in yon flood of light,
Nor the feathery curtains
Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch,
Nor the burnished ocean-waves,
Paving that gorgeous dome,
So fair, so wonderful a sight

As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.

Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy hall!

As heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread

Its floors of flashing light,

Its vast and azure dome,

Its fertile golden islands
Floating on a silver sea;

Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted
Through clouds of circumambient darkness,
And pearly battlements around

Looked o'er the immense of heaven.



THE storm-wind is howling

Through old pines afar; The drear night is falling Without moon or star.

The roused sea is lashing
The bold shore behind,
And the moan of its ebbing
Keeps time with the wind.

On, on through the darkness,
A spectre, I pass

Where, like moaning of broken hearts,
Surges the grass!

I see her lone headstone
'Tis white as a shroud;
Like a pall hangs above it
The low drooping cloud.

Who speaks through the dark night,
And lull of the wind?
"Tis the sound of the pine-leaves
And sea-waves behind!

The dead girl is silent

I stand by her now,
And her pulse beats no quicker,
Nor crimsons her brow.

The small hand that trembled
When last in my own,
Lies patient and folded,

And colder than stone.

Like the white blossoms falling
To-night in the gale,

So she in her beauty
Sank mournful and pale.

Yet I loved her! I utter

Such words by her grave, As I would not have spoken Her last breath to save.

Of her love the angels
In heaven might tell,
While mine would be whispered

With shudders in hell!

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