MUTABILITY. WE are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; Night closes round, and they are lost for ever; Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings We rest-A dream has power to poison sleep; It is the same !-For, be it joy or sorrow, ON DEATH. There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.-ECCLESIASTES. THE pale, the cold, and the moony smile Which the meteor beam of a starless night Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light, Is the flame of life so fickle and wan That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. O man! hold thee on in courage of soul Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way. This world is the nurse of all we know, This world is the mother of all we feel, And the coming of death is a fearful blow, To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel; When all that we know, or feel, or see, Shall pass like an unreal mystery. The secret things of the grave are there, Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? With the fears and the love for that which we see? ΤΟ ΔΑΚΡΥΕΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤΜΟΝ ΑΠΟΤΜΟΝ. OH! there are spirits in the air, And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair As star-beams among twilight trees : Such lovely ministers to meet Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet. With mountain winds, and babbling springs, Of these inexplicable things, Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice When they did answer thee; but they And thou hast sought in starry eyes Beams that were never meant for thine, Another's wealth;-tame sacrifice To a fond faith! still dost thou pine? Still dost thou hope that ungreeting hands, Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands? Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope Did thine own mind afford no scope That natural scenes or human smiles Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles. Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead; Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery. This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever Be as thou art. Thy settled fate, TO WORDSWORTH. POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow, LINES. THE cold earth slept below, Above the cold sky shone, With a chilling sound, From caves of ice and fields of snow, The wintry hedge was black, On the bare thorn's breast, Whose roots beside the pathway track, Thine eyes glowed in the glare On a sluggish stream Gleams dimly-so the moon shone there, The moon made thy lips pale, beloved; On thy dear head Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie STANZAS.-APRIL, 1814. AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even : Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! Tempt not with one last glance thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet. The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings, are not free From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile. FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF I HATED thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave Too late, since thou and France are in the dust, POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816. THE SUNSET. THERE late was One, within whose subtle being, |