morn,

She thought, "My spirit is here alone,

Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream :
She felt he was and was not there.
She woke the babble of the stream
Fell, and, without, the steady glare
Shrank one sick willow sere and small.
The river-bed was dusty-white;
And all the furnace of the light
Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whisper'd, with a stifled moan
More inward than at night or morn,
"Sweet Mother, let me not here alone
Live forgotten and die forlorn."

And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth, For "Love," they said, "must needs be

true,

To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seem'd to pass the door,

THY dark eyes open'd not,

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air,

For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought,

Moulded thy baby thought.
Far off from human neighborhood,

Thou wert born, on a summer morn,
A mile beneath the cedar-wood.
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd

And the steady sunset glow,
That stays upon thee? For in thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing
single;

Like two streams of incense free
From one censer, in one

shrine,

Thought and motion mingle,
Mingle ever. Motions flow

To one another, even as tho'
They were modulated so

To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleanore?

V.

I stand before thee, Eleänore;

I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
Daily and hourly, more and more.
I muse, as in a trance, the while

Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile.
Slowly, as from a cloud of gold,
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er

The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies,
To stand apart, and to adore,
Gazing on thee for evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleänore !

In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might
In a silent meditation,
Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation:
As waves that up a quiet cove
Rolling slide, and lying still

Shadow forth the banks at will: Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea :

And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore.

VIII.

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,

While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ;

Or, in a shadowy saloon,
On silken cushions half reclined;

I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,
While I muse upon thy face;
And a languid fire creeps
Thro' my veins to all my frame,
Dissolvingly and slowly soon

From thy rose-red lips MY name
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,
With dinning sound my ears are rife,
My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my color, I lose my breath,
I drink the cup of a costly death,
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of
warmest life.

I die with my delight, before
I hear what I would hear from
thee;

Yet tell my name again to me,
I would be dying evermore,
So dying ever, Eleänore.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

1 SEE the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes?

The slow wise smile that, round about
His dusty forehead drily curl'd,
Seem'd half-within and half-without,
And full of dealings with the world?
In yonder chair I see him sit,
Three fingers round the old silver cup-
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest-gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss :

My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth?

I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine It seems in after-dinner talk

But, Alice, what an hour was that,
When after roving in the woods
('T was April then), I came and sat
Below the chestnuts, when their buds
Were glistening to the breezy blue;
And on the slope, an absent fool,
I cast me down, nor thought of you,
But angled in the higher pool.

A love-song I had somewhere read,
An echo from a measured strain,
Beat time to nothing in my head

From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long,

With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song,

That went and came a thousand times.

Then leapt a trout. Ir. lazy mood

I watch'd the little circles die; They past into the level flood,

And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form,

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck.

For you remember, you had set,

That morning, on the casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above

They met with two so full and bright Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell'd the fear

That I should die an early death : For love possess'd the atmosphere,

And fill'd the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy,

And with the certain step of man.

I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam,

The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door

Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ramblings on the wold,
When April nights began to blow,
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold,
I saw the village lights below;

But when at last I dared to speak,

The lanes, you know, were white with
May,
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
And so it was-half-sly, half-shy,
Flush'd like the coming of the day;

Although I pleaded tenderly,
And you and I were all alone.

You would, and would not, little one!

And slowly was my mother brought
To yield consent to my desire:
She wish'd me happy, but she thought

I might have look'd a little higher; And I was young-too young to wed:

"Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here," she said:

Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride :
But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
This dress and that by turns you tried,
Too fearful that you should not please.
I loved you better for your fears,

I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.

I watch'd the little flutterings,

The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me;

My other dearer life in life,

Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years,

May those kind eyes forever dwell! They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part The still affection of the heart Of sorrow for when time was ripe,

Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again,

And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more,

With farther lookings on. The kiss,

The woven arins, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear—who wrought

Two spirits to one equal mindWith blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth,

To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

FATIMA.

O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,