While the manners, while the arts, ROSALIE "O POUR upon my soul again That seems from other worlds to plain; Had mingled with her light her sighs, "No, never came from aught below This melody of woe, That makes my heart to overflow, "For all I see around me wears The hue of other spheres; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath Can mould a sadness like to this, So like angelic bliss." So, at that dreamy hour of day, - When the last lingering ray Stops on the highest cloud to play, So thought the gentle Rosalie, As on her maiden reverie First fell the strain of him who stole In music to her soul. ON THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE AND thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend! No, nevermore thy gentle voice shall blend as when, pushed off Our joint communion breaking with the Sun: Thy mystic bark would through the dark Yet still from either beach |