TIME's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb;
Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand;
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,

And snared by the ungloving of thine hand.
And yet I never look on midnight sky,

But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light;

I cannot look upon the rose's dye,

But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight; I cannot look on any budding flower,

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,

And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour

Its sweets in the wrong sense :— Thou dost

eclipse

Every delight with sweet remembering,

And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.

* A lady whom he saw for some few moments at Vauxhall.

XII.

TO SLEEP.

1819.

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;

Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,

And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

XIII.

ON FAME.

1819.

FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,

And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gipsey,-will not speak to those

Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;

Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are !
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

XIV.

ON FAME.

"You cannot eat your cake and have it too."-Proverb.

How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,
Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,
And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;

It is as if the rose should pluck herself,
Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,

1819.

Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom: But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire, The undisturbed lake has crystal space; Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

XV.

1268

1819.

WHY did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell :
No God, no Demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once.
Heart! Thou and I are here sad and alone;
I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain!
O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease,

My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;

Yet would I on this very midnight cease,

And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser-Death is Life's high meed.