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Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear!
All the house is asleep, but we know very

well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you 've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel !

Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet,

Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush, my dear ! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.


No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

On the river,-all's still, and the night's sleepy eye
Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming

And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant,

Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want
No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.


Lift the latch ! ah gently! ah tenderly—sweet !

We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink! Well done—now those lips, and a flowery seatThe old man may sleep, and the planets may wink;

The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake

Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take, The stock-dove shall hatch his soft twin-eggs and

COO, While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!


1818. I HAD a dove and the sweet doye died;

And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,

With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you

Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing ! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd

oft and gave you


peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?


SHED no tear! 0, shed no tear !
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! 0! weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes !
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies-

Shed no tear.

Overhead ! look overhead !
'Mong the blossoms white and red-


I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear !
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, Adieu-I fly, adieu,
I vanish in the heaven's blue-

Adieu, Adieu !


SPIRIT here that reignest!
Spirit here that painest !
Spirit here that burnest !
Spirit here that mournest !

Spirit ! I bow

My forehead low,
Enshaded with thy pinions !

Spirit ! I look,

All passion-struck,
Into thy pale dominions!

Spirit here that laughest !
Spirit here that quaffest!
Spirit here that dancest !
Noble soul that prancest !

Spirit! with thee

I join in the glee,
While nudging the elbow of Momus !

Spirit! I flush

With a Bacchanal blush,
Just fresh from the banquet of Comus !


Ar! woe is me! poor silver-wing!

That I must chaunt thy lady's dirge, And death to this fair haunt of spring, Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,

Poor silver-wing ! ah! woe is me!

That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall !

Go, pretty page! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!

Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial !

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell, —

The blossoms hang by a melting spell, And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

Upon her closed eyes, That now in vain are weeping their last tears,

At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green, Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres.

Alas! poor Queen!

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