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1. It is the midnight hour, and sunk in sleep Are all around me—yet I wake—to thee My heart still breathes its vow so fond, so deep, Love's first—last burning word—Remember me!

Take—cherish- love these flowers! as tenderly As thou dost hold my memory in thy breast: They will be withered ere they meet thine eye, Yet to thy bosom let their leaves be pressed.

I gathered them when far away—and thou
Will look on them when I am absent still:
Such is the Circumstance to which we bow;
Life's various lot, which mocks our human will.

Y'et, if weak wishes could avail—nor breathe
Themselves away in sighs—I would impart

The powers of magic to this faded wreath;
A talisman to act upon thy heart:

Oh! 1 would change them to thy own loved flowers;
And, when thou look'st on them, thy bosom fraught
With tenderest memories of parted hours,
Then should they say like me—" Forget me not!"


Behold a Scene of mountain loneliness! To which the howling Winds lend fitting tongue; But an exulting sense, a consciousness Of freedom thrills me as I walk along, Until my gratitude pours forth in song, Even for the boon of life; oh! what are worth The best joys of the World-corrupted throng, To his, who wrapped in Clouds above the Earth, Pure as the fountain Waters which there draw their birth,


Tours his free spirit to the Elements,
As free and unconstrained? the leaves are swirled
Past, by the Winds; in red and broken rents,
The banks are split where torrents have been hurled
From yon cragged heights round which the clouds

are curled;
Crushed olives sunk, or writhing on the ground,
Spread their pale boughs like tattered banners furled;
A savage Scene !—but in this rushing sound
Of elemental strife my spirit finds rebound.


For then do we ally ourselves with power Congenial, with the mightier Energies Of Nature, calling us in that fierce hour To prove our spirit's answering sympathies: Who ever stood beneath the stormy skies, Or heard the wild Winds' voices poured abroad, Or watched the Ocean when its foam-flake flies To Heaven—nor gazing, freer, prouder trod, Nor looked into his soul, and felt it came from God? LXXI.

This flying moment—this brief point of time

Let me arrest, and fix, ere it be past,

All which it doth inspire of the sublime;

How through yon scathed trunks sweeps the rushing

blast! While Autumn leaves in Spring are round me cast, Still clinging, like grey age, to life; but, lo, Yon hill-bound lake expands its azure vast! I stand by its white waves that foam below, Typing the Ocean's wrath when heaves its mane of snow.


And this was Thrasimene !—how the name
Sends back the sudden life-blood to the heart!
What visions of old battles and of fame,
Before the mind's eye into being start;
Deeds which their inspirations still impart;
Here fell the Roman's Eagle's wings outspread,
Struck down as if from Jove's ethereal dart;
Here Valour sunk, his blood, like water shed,
Dying upon his foes—the Roman never fled!


All fight was vain; the darkening mists rolled down,
Blinding them, trampled on the marshy strand;
While their foes rushed from yon hill's sun-lit crown,
Front—flank—and rear—on that devoted band;
Vain was their rally—vainer still their stand;
Yet frantic Courage hewed, at last, its way
To where yon ridge's triple heights expand.
Conquered and conqueror's dust have passed away,

Still that once blood-dyed stream records the dreadful day.

Away with themes like these !—a softer scene,
And gentler heights around me are impending;
Above me swells a bank of living green:
Such as the heart dwells on, to Nature lending
Its own affections with her beauties blending;
What were her hues unanswered by the heart?
The violet's spiritual breath ascending
With the delicious airs, would here impart

Joy even to the joyless, and extract the dart

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