Homely affections, baser thoughts, employ
His spirits; and the mortal, in his heart
Wearied of ecstasy, rejects the flame,
So pure, so bright, by holy mystery fed;-
By truant wishes, vagrant fancies, led,

He craves the joys, man from the world may claim.

XXXIV.

His vigorous soul, on strenuous action bent,
Spurns at the spiritual life of love,—
Till, urged by rankling thorns of discontent,
He seeks the city!-he forsakes the grove!

XXXV.

-Amid the bustling, struggling ways of men,
Who now so ardent, stirring, bold, and free?
The wealthy mart of commerce trod again,
Who busy, greedy, covetous, as he?

XXXVI.

-In strife of popular assembly,

His passionate voice is brawling, 'mid the crowd
Of hot contentions-loud debate-reply-
Aspersion fierce-recrimination loud.

XXXVII.

-Stretch'd at the banquet, garlanded with flowers, On golden couch, the board with splendour crown'd, Of flashing lights-bright crystals-gems-while pours The purple wine-rich perfumes rolling round, As, with gay laugh and echoing song, the marble halls resound

Shall he recall the still and dewy glade,

Where, wrapp'd in tender dreams, he fondly stray'd, Listening the descant sweet, the night-bird warbling made?

XXXVIII.

While she!-(How shall that nature true as sweet Unkind desertion brook-unthought-of treachery meet?) Upon her breast, her gentle head depending;

Her locks unbound, in silken streams descending;

Her tender arms, in soft despondency,

Flung o'er that bosom where such sorrows lie,

Beneath the parent tree, whose branches light,
Waving and chequering to the morning ray,
Were wont to fill her with a glad delight—
Now melancholy, faded, pines away.

XXXIX.

Mute is her grief her life is lost in woe-
Woe!-strange companion for that spirit wild.
Yet list!-once more the charmed accents flow!
Thus mourns, in soft lament, fond Nature's child;
But faltering now that voice-broken and low.

XL.

"O heavenly light! why art thou to mine eyes
Become a hateful thing-a vexing sore!-
Sweet vernal breeze!-ah! wherefore dost thou rise
Chilly and damp?-Alas! he comes no more.

"Ye warbling birds! whose choral notes of joy
Fill'd with a soft delight my spirit's core,
Why grieve me with discordant symphony,
Jangled and harsh?-Alas! he comes no more.

"And sparkling morning-thou sweet hour of prime! Ye incense-breathing flowers, dew-spangled o'er! Why scentless, colourless, refuse to shine

On me-so sad?-Alas! he comes no more.

Pale hour of evening-holy calm moonlight!
Hour best beloved! wilt thou my peace restore?
Alas! thy silence chills-thy shades affright,
Gloomy and lone.-Alas! he comes no more.

"From me the sense of harmony has fled-
Life in its spring is check'd, and sicklied o'er.
Love, hope, and joy-on which my spirit fed-
Are quenched in night. He comes he comes no more."

END OF PART I.

PART II.

E pur soave amore, se in fido cor s'annida;
Ma se in un alma infida, meglio è morir che amar.

I.

THE dewy shades of eve were softly falling,

And silent sadness wrapt each sylvan gladeNo dor-hawk's hum-no sweet bird, tree-topp'd callingNo whispering voice of leaves and zephrys madeSave, that, from time to time, the owl did cry, And flit, with dusky wing, athwart the pale, clear sky. The glorious sun had closed his golden eye, And sunk behind the crimson-in purpling west; And lo! all solemnly the full moon roseLeaning against the eastern mount her breast; Then, slow ascending through the æther grey, Bright, round, and cold, pursued her shining way; While from her path the floods of silver sheen, Trembling, the leafy labyrinth between,

Chequer'd, with strange and flick'ring light, the ground, While browner horror wrapp'd the closing shades around.

II.

As some pale ghost, that treads the gloomy way
Of those cold realms beyond the silent grave,
Mourning the genial warmth of azure day,

By gloomy Acheron's reluctant wave-
So o'er the damp and dewy grass alone,
Shade of herself, so strays that faded one,
Wandering and weary, weeping as she goes,

The purple light of love, for her no more that glows.

III.

.Who, darkling, doth the forest mazes tread? Some wandering faun?-some satyr, wild and hoar? Or vision of the sickly fancy bred?

Or He!-the loved!--the lost!-return'd once more? He bears the Attic garb, in graceful fold,

Wrapp'd round those limbs of more than mortal mouldThe fatal axe, athwart his shoulder gleaming,

Strange beams of pale and ominous light, in cold reflection streaming.

IV.

'Tis he!—'tis he!—one faint, wild, piercing cry— 'Tis he!-'tis he! Joy beats in every veinRushes the colour to her cheek ;-the eye

Flashes a gladdening light; and o'er the plain, Fleet as the breeze, her winged footsteps fly. Round him, her tender, winding arms are thrown ; And, crouching to his feet, she sinketh down, Prone on the earth, in speechless ecstasy.

V.

Long there she wept: a fount of tears more pure
Than from the dewy eyelids of the morn,
Drop on the snow-white rose's breast-the sure,
The fond delight, healing that bosom, torn
By all those lacerating wounds which rend
The bleeding heart, in vehement love's despair;
And the wild, beating tumult sinks to rest,

As ocean's heaving waves beneath the halcyon's breast.

VI.

"Thou art returned!—art here!-I ask no more! I, with no tale of grief, will vex thy heart; Thou art returned-kind! pitying as before,

To thy poor forest child-no more to part !—
Ah! not again in bitterness to know

Thee cruel! faithless! lost!-unutterable woe!
Thou art returned-ah, best beloved! ah, say!
Swear-thou wilt never-never more-thus rend my
soul away!"

VII.

Imploring eyes, and quivering, shaking frame,
Beseeching looks, fix'd earnest on his face;
Knees bent to earth, adjuring words, that came

Like rushing stream-with sobs, smiles, tears-find place.

VIII.

He stands as stands the rock against the wave;
Whose marble foot the wooing waters lave;

Vain, broken, beaten things, and find themselves a grave.

IX.

He stands as stands some high, majestic tower:
Threatening and dark, its silent summits lour,

Nor yield to flattering gale, nor melt to stilly shower.

X.

Cruel! with pitiless eye, he answers, cold,

The impassioned earnest face-so fondly gazing; Strains the soft, snowy fetters to unfold,

Struggling, impatient;-then his dread voice raising

That voice whose accents, terrible and stern,

Bid the joy-circling streams back on the heart return :—

XI.

"I came," he cries, "to seek some garlands green To crown the banquet of a faithful friend:

I had forgot the fond, romantic dream.

What! shall such folly never have an end?
Unloose these clasping arms-away! away!
Lysippus calls the feast brooks no delay.
My soul abhors this idle life of love:
Action and enterprise my spirits move.
Unhand me, then!"—and, struggling to be free,
He shakes th' embracer rudely from his knee.

XII.

She falls! her face to earth. The dust is spread Around those outstretch'd arms-that beauteous head.

He would depart while thus she prostrate lies;

But no!-she upward springs; pursues him as he flies;
Fills with her anguish'd shrieks the midnight air—
The passionate accents of a last despair.