SONNET TO FANNY.

I

CRY your mercy-pity-love!-aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmask'd, and being seen-without a blot!
O! let me have thee whole,-all-all-be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,-
Yourself your soul-in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom's atom or I die,

Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes,-the palate of my mind
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

SONNET TO GEORGE KEATS:

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

BROTHER belov'd if health shall smile again,
Upon this wasted form and fever'd cheek:
If e'er returning vigour bid these weak
And languid limbs their gladsome strength regain,
Well may thy brow the placid glow retain

Of sweet content and thy pleas'd eye may speak
The conscious self applause, but should I seek
To utter what this heart can feel, Ah! vain

E E

Were the attempt! Yet kindest friends while o'er My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness The being whom your cares could e'en restore, From the cold grasp of Death, say can you guess The feelings which these lips can ne'er express; Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store.

La Belle Dame sans Merci.

I.

AH, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

2.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

3.

I see a lilly on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

4.

I met a lady in the meads.

Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.