Too happy Earth! over thy face shall creep No death divide thy immortality. see III. I loved - O no, I mean not one of ye, I loved, I know not what—but this low sphere Thou, whom seen nowhere, I feel everywhere. From heaven and earth, and all that in them are, Veiled art thou, like a star. IV. By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou flowest, Neither to be contained, delayed, nor hidden, Making divine the loftiest and the lowest, When for a moment thou art not forbidden To live within the life which thou bestowest ; And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden, Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight, Blank as the sun after the birth of night. V. In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common. In music and the sweet unconscious tone Of animals, and voices which are human, Meant to express some feelings of their own; In the soft motions and rare smile of woman, In flowers and leaves, and in the grass fresh-shewn, Or dying in the autumn, I the most Adore thee present or lament thee lost. VI. And thus I went lamenting, when I saw VII. The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth VIII. I bore it to my chamber, and I planted Fell through the window panes, disrobed of cold, IX. The mitigated influences of air And light revived the plant, and from it grew And every impulse sent to every part X. Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong, For one wept o'er it all the winter long Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song Mixed with the stringèd melodies that won it XI. Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers On which he wept, the while the savage storm Waked by the darkest of December's hours Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm; The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers, Whilst this A DIRGE. ROUGH wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Knells all the night long; Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong! THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT. "SLEEP, sleep on! forget thy pain; My hand is on thy brow, My spirit on thy brain; My pity on thy heart, poor friend; The powers of life, and like a sign, And brood on thee, but may not blend II. "Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not; But when I think that he Who made and makes my lot As full of flowers as thine of weeds, Might have been lost like thee; Might then have charmed his agony For thine. |