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When they have been too often crush'd to

earth. For further blindness to their little worth,— When fond illusions have dropt one by one, Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string,— And this is all what time will ever bring. —And that fair girl,—what can the heart

foresee Of her young love, and of its deatiny? There is • white cloud o'er the moon, its

form la very light, and yet there sleeps the storm; It ia an omen, it may tell the fate Of love known all too soon, repented all too



Turn fled,—for there waa for the brave

Left only a dishonour'd grave.

The day was lost; and his red hand

Waa now upon a broken brand.

The foes were in his native town,

The gates were forced, the walls were down,

The burning city lit the sky,—

What had lie then to do but fly;

Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet

Revenge might strike, or peace forget!

They fled,—for she was by his side, Life's last and loveliest link, his bride,— Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone, Or linger'd only with that one. They hasten'd by the lonely way That through the winding forest lay, Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind, And shout and shriek came on the wind; And twice the warrior turn'd again And cursed the arm that now in vain, Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp The sword that trembled in its clasp.

At last they reach'd a secret shade Which seem'd as for their safety made; And there they paused, for the warm tide Burst in red gushes from his side, And hung the drops on brow and cheek, And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak. She took her long dark hair, and bound The cool moss on each gaping wound. And in her closed-up hands she brought The water which his hot lip sought,— And anxious gazed upon his eye, As asking, shall we live or die? Almost as if she thought his breath Had power o'er his own life and death.

But, hark !—His not the wind deceives, There ia a step among the leaves:

Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,
It is their fiercest enemy;
He of the eliarm'd and deadly steel,
Whose stroke was never known to heal,—
He of the sword sworn not to spare,—
She flung her down in her despair!

The dying chief sprang to his knee,
And the stannch'd wounds well'd fearfully;
But his gas If d arm, what is it now '.
Livid his lip. and black his brow,
While over him the slayer stood,
As if he almost scorn'd the blood
That cost so little to be won,—
He strikes,—the work of death is done!



She lav upon ■ basic, the favourite hannt
Of the spring-wind ia its first sunshine-hour,
Fur the luxuriant strawberry-blossoms spread
Like a snow-shower there, and violets
Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume
About her pillow,—link'd in a gay band
Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards.
Her lithe and rainbow elves.

We have been o'er land and sen,
Seeking lovely dreams for thee,—
Where is there we have not been
Gathering gifts for our sweet queen?
We are come with sound and sight
Fit for fairy's sleep to-night;—
First around thy couch shall sweep
Odours, such as roses weep
When the earliest spring-rain
Calls them into life again;
Next upon thine ear shall float
Many a low and silver note,
Stolen from a dark-eyed maid
When her lover's serenade.
Rising as the stars grew dim,
Waken'd her from thoughts of him;
There shall steal o'er lip and cheek
Gales, but all too light to break
Thy soft rest,—such gales as hide
All day orange-flowers inside,
Or that, while hot noontide, dwell
In the purple hyacinth-bell;
And before thy sleeping eyes_
Shall come glorious pageantries,—
Palaces of gems and gold,
Such as dazzle to behold,—
Gardens, in which every tree
Seems a world of bloom to be,—
Fountains, whose clear waters show
The white pearls that lie below—
During slumber's magic reign
Other times shall live again;
First thou shalt be young and frco
In thy days «f liberty,—

Then again be woo'd and won
By thy stately Obkron.
Or thoa shalt descend to earth,
And see all of mortal birth.
No, that world's too fall of care
For e'en dreams to linger there.
But, behold, the son is set,
And the diamond coronet
Of the young moon is on high
Waiting for our revelry;
And the dew is on the flower,
And the stars proclaim our hoar;
Long enough thy rest has been,
Wake, Titaxia, wake our queen!



Through the light curtains came the perfumed air, And flung them back and show'd a garden,

where The eye could just catch glimpses of those

trees Which send sweet messages upon the breeze To lull a maiden's sleep, and fan her cheek, When inward thoughts in outward blushes

speak. Beneath 's a silken couch, just lit to be A snowy shrine for some fair deity; And there a beauty rests, lovely as those Enchanted visions haunting the repose Of the young poet, when his eyelids shut To dream that loye they have but dream'd

as yet;— But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be A happiness but made for phantasic! And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye Seems as it read in them her destiny. She knew whose hand had gather'd them,

she knew Whose sigh and touch were on their scent and hue.

Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own, But only to the spring and summer known. Ah! little marvel in such clime and ape As that of our too earth-bound pilgrimage, That we should daily hear that love is fled, And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings

dead. Not for the cold, the careless to impart, By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart: But surely in the countries where the sun Lights loveliness in all he shines upon,— Where love is as a mystery and a dream, One single flower upon life's troubled stream; There, there, perchance, may the young

bosom thrill. Feeling and fancy linger with love still

She look'd upon the blossoms, and a rail? A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. Surely her love is blest, no leaves are then That aught of lover's misery declare. True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower. Whose dim blue colour speak* an absent hoar; Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow Of those who part to-day to meet to-morrow: For there are hope and constancy beside. And are not these to happiness allied? And yet upon that maiden's cheek is ranrht A summer - evening's shade of pensu

thought, As if these large soft eyes knew all their fat'. How the heart would its destiny create.— At once too tender, and too passionate;— Too made for happiness to be happy here An angel fetter'd to an earthly sphere.— And those dark eyes, so large, so soft, n

bright, So clear as if their very tears -were light— They tell that destiny;—art thou not oat To whom love will be like the summer-tin That feeds the diamond in the secret nu'ir. Then calls it from its solitude to shine. And piece by piece be broken? Watch tht

• bloom,

And mark its fading to an early tomb.
And read in the decay upon it stealing
Of thy own wasted hope and wither'd

Ay, fitting messengers for love! as fair,
As quickly past as his own visions arc;—
Fling, fling the flowers away!



And there the island lay, the waves around
Had never known a storm; for the north-
Was charm'd from coming, and the only air*
That blew brought sunshine on their aiare

wings, Or tones of music from the sparry caves. Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink

conch. These were sea-breezes,—those that swept

the land Brought other gifts,—sighs from blurt iolets. Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright

rose, Stole odours. On the silver mirror's face Was but a single ripple that was made By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet winp Shone like a meteor on the stream: around. Upon the golden sands, were coral plants, And shells of many colours, and sea-weeds. Whoso foliage caught and chain'd the

Nautilus, Where lay they as at anchor. On each side Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps Of the green marble; and a lovely light, Like- tlie far radiance of a thousand lamps, Hiilf-shinc, half-shadow, or the glorious

track Of a departing star hut faintly seen In the dim distance, through those caverns

shone, And play'd o'er the tall trees which seem'd

to hide Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft

bells To call the bees from the anemone, Jealous of their bright rivals1 golden wealth. —Amid those arches floated starry shapes, Just indistinct enough to make the eye Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front, Home on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans, There lay a lovely figure,—she was queen Of the Enchanted Island, which was raised From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her: And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea, The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves

She 'was the daughter of a king, and loved By a young Ocean-Spirit from her birth,— He hover'd o'er her in her infancy, And bade the rose grow near her, that her

cheek Might catch its colour, — lighted up her

dreams With fairy-wonders, and made harmony The element in which she moved; at last, When that she turn'd away from earthly love, Knamour'd of her visions, he became Visible with his radiant wings, and bore His bride to the fair island.





My home and haunt are in every leaf, Whose life is a summer-day, bright and

brief,— I live in the depths of the tulip's bower, I wear a wreath of the cistus-llower, I drink the dew of the blue harebell, I know the breath of the violet well,— The white and the azure violet,

But I know not which is the sweetest yet,

I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose,

I have watch'd the lily unclose,

My silver mine is the almond-tree,

Who will come dwell with flower and me?


Dance we our round, 'tis a summer-night, And our steps are led by the glow-worms' light.

My dwelling is in the serpentine

Of the rainbow's colour'd line,—

See how its rose and amber clings

To the many hues of my radiant wings;

Mine is the step that bids the earth

Give to the iris-flower its birth,

And mine the golden cup to hide,

Where the last faint hue of the rainbow

died. Search the depths of an Indian mine, Where are the colours to match with mine?


Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer-rose is singing.

Third Fairy.

I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute,
Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute,
Linger I over the tones that swell
From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean-
I love the sky-lark's morning-hymn,
Or the nightingafe heard at the twilight dim,
The echo, the fountain's melody,—
These, oh! these are the spells for me!

Hail to the summer-night of June; See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.


My palace is in the coral-rave

Set with spars by the ocean-wave;

Would ye have gems,thcn seek them there,—

There found I the pearls that bind my hair.

I and the wind together can mam

Over the green waves and their white foam,—

Sec, I have got this silver shell,

Mark how my breath will its smallness swell,

For the Nautilus is my boat

In which I over the waters float,—

The moon is shining over the sea,

Who is there will come sail with me?


Our noontide-sleep is on leaf and flower,
Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,—
Whnt is there sweet, what is there fair,
And we are not the dwellers there?
Dance we round, for the morning-light.
Will put us and our glow-worm-lamps to



Ay, screen thy favourite dove, fair child,

Ay, screen it if yon may,—
Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand

Will scare the hawk away.

That dove will die, that child will weep,—

Is this their destinie?
Ever amid the sweets of life

Some evil thing must he.

Ay, moralize,—is it not thus

We 've mourn'd our hope and love?

Alas! there 's tears for every eye,
A hawk for every dove!



Away, away, o'er land and sea,
This is now no home for me;
My light wings may never bear
Northern cloud or winter-air.
Murky shades are gathering fast,
Sleet and snow are on the blast;
Trees from which the leaves are fled,
Flowers whose very roots arc dead,
Grass of its green blade bereft.
These are all that now are left.
—Linger here another day,
I shall be as sad as they;
My companions fly with spring,
I too must be on the wing.

Where are the sweet gales whose song
Wont to waft my darts along?
Scented airs! oh, not like these,
Rough as they which sweep the seas;
But those sighs of rose which bring
Incense from their wandering.
Where are the bright flowers that kept
Guard around me while I slept?
Where the sunny eyes whose beams
Waken'd me from my soft dreams ?—
These are with the swallows gone,—
Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone.

Oh! for some sweet southern clime, Where 'tis ever summer-time,— Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb Is amid new birth of bloom,— Where green leaves are ever springing, Where the lark is always singing,— One of those bright isles which lie Fair beneath an azure sky.

Isles of cinnamon and spice,
Shndow each of Paradise,—
Where the flowers shine with dyes.
Tinted bright from the sun-rise,—
Where the birds which drink their dew.
Wave wings of yet brighter hoe.
And each river's course is roll'd
Over bed of pearl and gold!

Oh! for those lime-scented grovea
Where the Spanish lover roves,
Tuning to the western star,
His soft song and light guitar,—
Where the dark-hair'd girls are dancing.
Fairies in the moonlight glancing,
With pencill'd brows, and radiant eyes.
Like their planet-lighted skies!
Or those clear Italian lakes
Where the silver cygnet makes
Its soft nest of leaf and flower,
A white lily for its bower!
Each of these a home would be,
Fit for beauty and for me:
I must seek their happier sphere
While the Winter lords it here.



Ay, surely it is here that Love should i
And find (if he may find on earth) a home:
Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame
That cling like shadows to his very name

Young Love, thou art belied: they spetl

of thee. And couple with thy mention misery; Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom. The spirit blighted, and the early tomb; As if these waited on thy golden lot,— They blame thee for the faults which thou

hast not. Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee The soil and weight of their mortality T How can they hope that ever links will lioli! Form'd, as they form them now, of the harth

gold? Or worse than even this, now can they thinV That vanity will bind the failing link? How can they dream that thy sweet life

will bear Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air? Where the lip smiles while the heart '•

desolate, And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate; Where looks and thoughts alike must feel

the chain, And nought of life is real but its pain; Where the young spirit's high imagining Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;

Where, think or feel, you are forcdoom'd

to be A marvel and a sign for mockery; Where none mast wander from the beaten

road,— AU alike champ the hit, and feel the goad. It is not made for thee, young Love! away To where the green earth laugha to the

clear day, To the deep valley, where a thousand trees Keep a green court for fairy-revelries,— To some small island on a lonely lake, W here only swans the diamond-waters break, Where the pines hang in silence o'er the tide And the stream gushes from the mountainside; These, Love, are haunts for thee; where

canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude?



Shk was just risen from her bended knee, But yet peace seem'd not with her piety; For there was paleness upon her young

cheek, And thoughts upon the lips which never

speak, But wring the heart that at the last they

break. Alas! how much of misery may be read In that wan forehead, and that bow'd-down

head;— Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever Love should thus struggle with a vain

endeavour Against itself: it is a common tale, And ever will be while earth-soils prevail Over earth's happiness; it tells she strove With silent, secret, unrequited love.

It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected; Living with only but to be content, Hopeless, for love is its own element,— Requiring nothing so that it may be The martyr of its fond fidelity. A mystery art thou, thou mighty one! We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's

songs Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs. And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, Are terms which are thy own peculiar right; Yet all deny their master,—who will own His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy


"Tis strange to think if we con 1*1 fling aside The masque and mantle that love wears

from pride. How much would be, we now so little guess. Deep in each heart's undrcam'd, unsought


The careless smile, like a gay banner borne,
The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,—
And for a cloak what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gaiety?
Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow,
But rainbow-words,light laugh, and thought-
less jest,
These are the bars, the curtain to the breast.
That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form
Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's

storm, Has hidden well her wound,—now none are

nigh To mock with curious or with careless eye, (For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes, Strikes at the root of its best happiness, And mockery is worm-wood) she may dwell On feelings which that picture may not tell.



And the summer-sun shone in the sky,
And the rose's whole life was in its sigh,
When her eyelids were kiss'd by a morning-
And the Nymph rose up from her moonlit

dream; For she had watch'd the midnight-hour Till her head had bow'd like a sleeping

flower; But now she had waken'd, and light and dew Gave her morning-freshness and morninghue,— Up she sprang, and away she fled O'er the lithe grass-stem and the blossom's

head, From the lilies' bells she dash'd not the spray. For her feet were as light and as white as

they. Sudden upon her arm there shone A gem with the hues of an Indian stone, And she knew the insect-bird whose wing Is sacred to Psychb and to Spring; But scarce had her touch its captive prest, Ere another prisoner was on her breast, And the Zephyr sought his prize again,— No, said the Nymph, thy search is vain: And her golden hair from its braided yoke Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke: And instead, fair hoy, thou shalt moralize Over the pleasure that from thee flies; Then it is pleasure,— for we possess But in the search, not in the success.

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