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A THOUGHT AT NIGHT.
In yonder taper's waning light,
An image of my heart I see;
Its life the love of thee-
But slowly wastes while it illumes ;
My life itself consumes.
The summer--the summer hath come, my love,
And the ring-dove found his bride Not a flower below, not a beam above,
But doth thy coyness chide. I have loved thee well—I have loved thee long
I have loved thyself alone; There lived not a thought in my burning song,
That my heart did not more than own.
Be mine—be mine while the Hours allow
My life to be vowed to Thee;
But the worm is in the tree.
When the vow shall be ever o'er-
Shall leap to the Breeze no more.
The scent from Life's closing flowers; And sometime hence it will soothe to say
" I blest his latest hours !"
TO JULIET SLEEPING.
The moonbeams thro’ the lattice fall;
They silver o'er thy blushing cheek ;
The love I could not speak.
Our world can be earth's world no more,
And that we knew before.
How rush the swelling tides of thought
All round grows hallowed ground to me!
The loving air—with THEE!
Of Heaven's sweet stars was mixed with sadness;
A glory and a gladness!
I grow enamoured of thy rest;
My pillow is thy breast !
ON THE IMITATORS OF BYRON.
A Swan hymn'd music on the Muses' waves,
What of the Swan's attraction could they lack,
ON THE WANT OF SYMPATHY WE EXPERI
ENCE IN THE WORLD.
“Oh for one breast to image ours!”
Youth in its earliest vision sighs;
Until---the dreamer dies.
Thou seek'st, how loved soe'er thou art,
Can never glass thy heart.
I grant thee, love's first whispered tone;
The echo to thine own?
For something kindred from his birth ?
What is not of the earth ?
Ah! could we to ourselves betroth
One breast, a very shade of ours; Would Time alone not alter both
The creatures of the hours? Go back into thy lonely soul,
And with a calm and chasten d eye Survey thy tether, and control
The dreams that seek the sky ;And for ideal shapes, would melt
All life into one vague desire ;
Hope's mortal ends expire.
How much has life itself to bless
Seeks what it can possess ! Ourself may in ourself create,
A tie beyond the dreamer's art; No bond is made that mocks at Fate,
Like Man's with his own heart.