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With what a deep devotedness of woe I wept thy absence o'er and o'er again Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, And memory, like a drop that, night and day, Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!

Like Dead Sea fruit that tempts the eye, But turns to ashes on the lips!

Every season hath its pleasure; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasuries Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells!

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood; And those that under Araby's soft sun Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

While mantling on the maiden's cheek Young roses kindled into thought.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, Soon as the woods on shore dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn; Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, Grow pure by being purely shone upon.

Yes,--rather plunge me back in pagan night, And take my chance with Socrates for bliss, Than be the Christian of a faith like this, Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway, And in a convert mourns to lose a prey.

Take up the cross if thou the crown would'st gain. [Lat., Tolle crucem, qui vis auferre coronam.]

Dear creature!--you'd swear When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only par complaisance touches the ground.

Alas! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No! perish the hearts, and the laws that try Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom, See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart, Which rank corruption destines for their heart!

How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light.

This speck of life in time's great wilderness This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities!

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night.

Cheek . . . Flushing white and mellow'd red; Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.