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The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower,
Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs

Fled in the April hour.
I too, must seldom seek again
Near happy friends a mitigated pain.


Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn content;
Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown

Itself indifferent.
But, not to speak of love, pity alone
Can break a spirit already more than bent.

The miserable one
Turns the mind's poison into food,
Its medicine is tears,—its evil good.


Therefore if now I see you seldomer,
Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly

Your looks because they stir
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die:
The very comfort that they minister

I scarce can bear; yet I,
So deeply is the arrow gone,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.


When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been ?

You spoil me for the task


His heart with words,—but what his judgment

Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.

These verses are too sad
To send to you, but that I know,
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.

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“Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh,"

Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere the stars were lit, or candles brought;

And I, who thought
This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Asked, “ Who is Aziola ?” How elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,

No mockery of myself to fear and hate !

And Mary saw my soul,
And laughed and said, “ Disquiet yourself not,

'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.”

Sad Aziola! many an eventide

Thy music I had heard
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side,
And fields and marshes wide,-

Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
The soul ever stirred ;

Unlike and far sweeter than they all :
Sad Aziola ! from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.



Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts :
History is but the shadow of their shame;
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers, knit
By force or custom ? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself! in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.


O WORLD! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before ; When will return the glory of your prime ?

No more—Oh, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move

my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more-Oh, never more!


I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me-

e-who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail

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