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 grey 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,
agony, to the Earth-and Heaven.

In

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 fringed 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 entombéd 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 moreThy memory no more! Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,

O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!

I DWELT alone

In a world of moan,

soul was a stagnant tide,

Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing brideTill 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,

Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curlCan compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.

Now Doubt-now Pain
Come never again,

For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
And all day long

Shines, bright and strong,

Astarté within the sky,

While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eyeWhile ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

FOR ANNIE.

THANK Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-

And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,

I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length-
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now in my bed,
That any beholder

Might fancy me dead—

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing At heart:-ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea

The pitiless pain—
Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain

With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.

VOL. III.

And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst,

For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:-
I have drank of a water

:

That quenches all thirst :

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed

And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.

My tantalised spirit

Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses-
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odour

About it, of pansies-
A rosemary odour,

Commingled with pansies-
With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

D