Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore ;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire,

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters-lone and dead

Their still waters—still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains-near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,-
By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,

By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy,-

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past

Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth-and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
"Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
"Tis-oh, 'tis an Eldorado !

But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not dare not openly view it!
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringèd lid;

And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright,

I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule.

TO ZANTE.

FAIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! How many memories of what radiant hours

At sight of thee and thine at once awake! How many scenes of what departed bliss !

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!

How many visions of a maiden that is

No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!

No more! alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more-

Thy memory no more! Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,

O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!

"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante !"

EULALIE.

I DWELT alone

In a world of moan,

And my soul was a stagnant tide,

Till the fair and gentle Eulalie

Became my blushing bride

Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie
Became my smiling bride.

Ah, less-less bright

The stars of the night

Than the eyes of the radiant girl!

And never a flake

That the vapour can make

With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,