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Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to
rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.
Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow
shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.
Here about the beach I wanderd, nourishing a youth
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of
When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land
reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it
When I dipt into the future far as human eye could
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the Robin's
breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts
Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for
one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance
And I said, “ My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."
On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a
light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern
And she turn'd-her bosom shaken with a sudden storm
of sighs-All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes,
Saying, “ I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do
me wrong ;” Saying, “Dost thou love me, cousin ?” weeping, “ I have
loved thee long."
Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his
glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the
chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music
out of sight.
Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses
ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of
Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately
ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.
O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no
O the barren,
O the dreary, dreary moorland!
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have
sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish
Is it well to wish thee happy ?-having known meto
decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than
Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise
As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a
clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its
novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his
What is this ? his eyes are heavy: think not they are
glazed with wine. Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine.
may lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with