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The beings that surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him! he was a mark
For blight and desolation,-compassed round
With hatred and contention: pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,—
But were a kind of nutriment: he lived

Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars

And the quick spirit of the universe

He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret--be it so.

My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality—the one

To end in madness-both in misery.



(From "DON JUAN.")

WAS twilight, and the sunless day went down


Over the waste of waters; like a veil

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is masked but to assail.

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,

And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,

And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell—

Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave— Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,

As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawned around her like a hell,

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,

Like one who grapples with his enemy,

And strives to strangle him before he die.

And first one universal shriek there rushed,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless, dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

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There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,

And with them their two sons, of whom the one

Was more robust and hardy to the view;

But he died early; and when he was gone,

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw

One glance on him, and said, "Heaven's will be done!

I can do nothing;" and he saw him thrown

Into the deep without a tear or groan.

The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;

But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought that they must part.

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised

His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed:

And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,

Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth; but in vain!

The boy expired-the father held the clay,

And looked upon it long; and when at last Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay

Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully, until away

'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.



HERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull


'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be


Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of hap


Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess :

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch


Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes


It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice


Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth attract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath,
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray

O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished


As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though

they be,

So midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow

to me!

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HE sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May


Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay,

A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the Spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil,

Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil:

And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea— Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.


'Tis Nature, full of spirits, waked and springing :-
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay

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