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My First, in torrents bleak and black,

Was rushing from the sky,
When, with my second at his back,

Young Cupid wandered by: “Now take me in; the moon hath passed;

I pray ye, take me in!
The lightnings flash, the hail falls fast,
All Hades rides the thunder-blast;

I'm dripping to the skin !”

“I know thee well, thy songs and sighs;

A wicked god thou art,
And yet most welcome to the eyes,

Most witching to the heart !"
The wanderer prayed another prayer,

And shook his drooping wing;
T'he lover bade him enter there,
And wrung my First from out his liair,

And dried my Second's string.

And therefore,—(so the urchin swore,

By Styx, the fearful river,
And by the shafts his quiver bore,

And by his shining quiver,)
That Lover aye shall see my whole

In Life's tempestuous Heaven;
And when the lightnings cease to roll,
Shall fix thereon his dreaming soul

In the deep calm of even !

VOL. II.-17

VI.

The Indian lover burst

From his lone cot by night ;When Love hath lit my First, In hearts by Passion nurst,

Oh! who shall quench the light?

The Indian left the shore;

He heard the night wind sing,
And curs’d the tardy oar,
And wish'd that he could soar,

Upon my Second's wing.

The blast came cold and damp.

But, all the voyage through,
I lent my lingering lamp
As o'er the marshy swamp

He paddled his canoe.

VII.

ENIGMA.

In other days, when hope was bright,
Ye spake to me of love and light,
Of endless spring, and cloudless weather,
And hearts that doted link'd together!

But now ye tell another tale,
That life is brief, and beauty frail,
That joy is dead, and fondness blighted,
And hearts that doted disunited!

Away! ye grieve and ye rejoice
In one unfelt, unfeeling voice;
And ye, like every friend below,
Are hollow in your joy and woe!

VIII.

Alas! for that forgotten day

When Chivalry was nourished, When none but friars learned to pray

And beef and beauty flourished ! And fraud in kings was held accurst,

And falsehood sin was reckoned, And mighty chargers bore my First,

And fat monks wore my Second !

Oh, then I carried sword and shield,

And casque with flaunting feather, And earned my spurs in battle field,

In winter and rough weather ; And polished many a sonnet up

To ladies' eyes and tresses, And learned to drain my father's cup,

And loose my falcon's jesses :

How grand was I in olden days!

How gilded o’er with glory! The happy mark of ladies' praise,

The theme of minstrel's story;

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