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Ah! when I thither go

I know that my joy-emptied eyes shall see

A white Ghost wandering where the lilies blow,

A Sorrow sitting by the trysting tree.

I kiss this soft curl of her living hair,

'Tis full of light as when she did unbind

Her sudden ringlets, making bright the wind:

'Tis here, but she is-where?

Why do I, like a child impatient, weep?

Delight dies like a wreath of frosted breath;

Though here I toil upon the barren deep,
I see the sunshine yonder lie asleep,
Upon the calm and beauteous shores of Death.
Ah, Maurice, let thy human heart decide,
The first best pilot through distracting jars.
The lowliest roof of love at least will hide
The desolation of the lonely stars.
Stretched on the painful rack of forty years,
I've learned at last the sad philosophy
Of the unhoping heart, unshrinking eye-

God knows; my icy wisdom and my sneers

Are frozen tears!

The day wears, and I go.

Farewell, Elijah! may you heartily dine!

I cannot, David, see your fingers twine

In the long hair of your foe.

Housewife, adieu, Heaven keep your ample form,

May custom never fail


And may your heart, as sound as your own ale,

Be soured by never a storm!

Though I have travelled now for twice an hour,

I have not heard a bird or seen a flower.

This wild road has a little mountain rill

To sing to it, ah! happier than I.
How desolate the region, and how still
The idle earth looks on the idle sky!
I trace the river by its wandering green;
The vale contracts to a steep pass of fear,

And through the midnight of the pines I hear
The torrent raging down the long ravine.

At last I've reached the summit high and bare;

I fling myself on heather dry and brown:

As silent as a picture lies the town,

Its peaceful smokes are curling in the air;
The bay is one delicious sheet of rose,

And round the far point of the tinted cliffs

I see the long strings of the fishing skiffs
Come home to roost like lines of evening crows.

I can be idle only one day more

As the nets drying on the sunny shore;

Thereafter, chambers, still 'mid thronged resorts,

Strewn books and littered parchments, nought to see, Save a charwoman's face, a dingy tree,

A fountain plashing in the empty courts.

But let me hasten down this shepherd's track, The Night is at my back.




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