On the river for love, and perchance she would make

eyes for my sake,

In pity a maid without

And she left me like Scorn.

Then I ask'd of the wave,

What monster I was, and it trembled and gave

The true shape of my grief, and I turn'd with my face From all waters for ever, and fled through that place, Till with horror more strong than all magic I pass'd Its bounds, and the world was before me at last.

There I wander'd in sorrow, and shunn'd the abodes Of men, that stood up in the likeness of Gods,

But I saw from afar the warın shine of the sun

On their cities, where man was a million, not one;
And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending,
That show'd where the hearts of the many were blending,
And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came
From the trumpets that gather'd whole bands in one
fame

As a chorus of man, and they stream'd from the gates
Like a dusky libation pour'd out to the Fates.

But at times there were gentler processions of peace

That I watch'd with my soul in my eyes till their cease,

There were women! there men! but to me a third sex

I saw them all dots—yet I loved them as specks:
And oft to assuage a sad yearning of eyes

I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise

Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten
By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten!
Oh, I once had a haunt near a cot where a mother
Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother
Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep

Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep

In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks

That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks; But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never

I return'd to a spot I had startled for ever,

Though I oft long'd to know, but could ask it of none, Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son?

For the haunters of fields they all shunn'd me by flight, The men in their horror, the women in fright;

None ever remain'd save a child once that sported
Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted
The breeze; and beside him a speckled snake lay
Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away

N 2

From the flow'r at his finger; he rose and drew near

Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear,

But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright

To grow to large manhood of merciful might.

He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel,
The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel,

And question'd my face with wide eyes; but when under
My lids he saw tears, for I wept at his wonder,
He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then,
That the once love of women, the friendship of men
In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss

On

my heart in its desolate day such as this!

And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent, And lifted him up in my arms with intent

To kiss him, but he cruel-kindly, alas!

Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of grass!
Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled

The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head,
That dissever'd my ear, but I felt not, whose fate
Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate!

Thus I wander'd, companion'd of grief and forlorn, Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born,

But what was that land with its love, where my home
Was self-shut against me; for why should I come
Like an after-distress to my grey-bearded father,
With a blight to the last of his sight ?—let him rather
Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn
Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn

To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how

Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now Like Gods to my humbled estate ?- -or how bear

The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care

Of

my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same

As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream

In

games, and were suddenly changed by a scream That made wretches of many, as she roll'd her wild eyes Against heav'n, and so vanish'd.-The gentle and wise Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.

THE

TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.

1.

ALAS! that breathing Vanity should go

Where Pride is buried,—like its very ghost,

Uprisen from the naked bones below,

In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast

Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

On

Shedding its chilling superstition most

young and ignorant natures—as it wont

To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!