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Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own ;
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he

o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel ;
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen Star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity :
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps and served your

Now in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas ! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave-
From you, he only dares to crave,

For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,
O that such our death may be !
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again :
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells ;
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains ;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,

The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way-
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it ;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions ; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved friend alone.


“SLEEP, sleep on! forget thy pain ;

My hand is on thy brow,
My spirit on thy brain ;
My pity on thy heart, poor friend;

And from my fingers flow

The powers of rife, and like a sign,

Seal thee from thine hour of woe; And brood on thee, but may not blend

With thine.

“ Sleep, sleep on ! I love thee not ;

But when I think that he Who made and makes


lot As full of flowers, as thine of weeds,

Might have been lost like thee; And that a hand which was not mine

Might then have chased his agony As I another's—my heart bleeds

For thine.

Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of

The dead and the unborn
Forget thy life and love;
Forget that thou must wake for ever ;

Forget the world's dull scorn;
Forget lost health, and the divine

Feelings which died in youth's brief morn; And forget me, for I can never

Be thine.

“ Like a cloud big with a May shower,

My soul weeps healing rain
On thee, thou withered flower;
It breathes mute music on thy sleep;

Its odour calms thy brain !

Its light within thy gloomy breast

Spreads like a second youth again. By mine thy being is to its deep


“ The spell is done. How feel you now?”

“ Better-Quite well,” replied The sleeper,—“ What would do You good when suffering and awake?

What cure your head and side ?”. 6. "Twould kill me what would cure my pain ;

And as I must on earth abide Awhile, yet tempt me not to break

My chain.”


A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough ; The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound.

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