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Must wander on through hopes and fears, With such impatient, feverish heat,
Mine that so long has glowed and burned Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
With passions into ashes turned Am weary thinking of your road!
Now covers and conceals its fires.
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring (From "The Princess.'')
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh’d: S through the land at eve we went,
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw And plucked the ripened ears, We fell out, my wife and I,
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning now and then to speak with him, Oh, we fell out, I know not why, And kissed again with tears.
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he For when we came where lies the child
smiled. We lost in other years, There above the little grave,
Now when the dead man come to life beheld Oh, there above the little grave,
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe We kissed again with tears.
Hers, yet not his, upou the father's knee,
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children's love(From "Enoch Arden.'')
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, UT Enoch yearned to see her face again ;
Because things seen are mightier than things
heard, And know that she is happy!" So the thought Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and
fear'd Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth,
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, At evening when the dull November day
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. There he sat down, gazing on all below; There did a thousand memories roll upon him, He, therefore, turning softly like a thief, Unspeakable for sadness. By-and-by
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, The ruddy square of comfortable light, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed, The bird of passage, till he madly strikes As lightly as a sick man's chamber door, Against it, and beats out his weary life.
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, And there he would have knelt, but that his The latest house to landward; but behind,
knees With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug Flourish'd a little garden square and wall’d;
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray’d. And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
Too hard to bear! why did they take me A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk
thence ? Of shingle, and a walk divided it;
O God Almighty, blessed Savior, Thou But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness, That which he better might have shunned, if
A little longer! Aid me, give me strength griefs
Not to tell her, never to let her know. Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.
Help me not to break in upon her peace.
My children, too! must I not speak with these? For cups and silver on the burnish'd board They know me not. I should betray myself. Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: Never. No father's kiss for me—the girl And on the right hand of the hearth he saw So like her mother, and the boy, my son.” Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stont, rosy, with his babe across his knees; There speech and thought and nature failed a And o'er her second father stoopt a girl,
little, A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
And he lay tranced. Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand
Shall know the tear, the shadow, and the (From "Kathrina.'')
knell; PIVER, sparkling river, I have fault to find O Mother of our race! Art does but image
Fate witb thee; River, thou dost never give a word of peace
In thee, so fair, and fond, and yet disconsolate. to me;
HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN. Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimp
ling to each air that blows, Thou dost make no sweet replying to my
sighing for repose.
Flowers of mount and meadow, I have fault
to find with you; So the breezes cross and toss you, so your
cups are filled with dew, Matters not though sighs give motion to the
ocean of your breath ; Matters not though you are filling with the
chilling drops of death.
Birds of song and beauty, lo, I charge you all
with blame! Though all hapless passions thrill and fill me,
you are still the same; I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that
avails From your lonely note, that only speaks of
joy that never fails.
Oh, indifference of Nature to the fact of hu
HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. man pain! Every grief that seeks relief entreats it at her hand in vain;
ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN: Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a river seeks the sea,
LAVE of the dark and dirty mine, Nor a flower from wreaths of summer breathes
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine
So bright, whom I have bought so dear
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear
The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,
By Cherical's dark wandering streams, That Niobe's maternal anguish wears, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Nor yet the grief of sin, remorseful born, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Canova's Magdalen so gently bears ;
Of Teviot loved while still a child, But the sad consciousness that through a Of castled rocks stupendous piled wrong
By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Conceived in sell, and for a selfish end, Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Immeasurable pain will now belong
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! To unborn millions, with their life to blend; A heritage whereby sweet nature's face, Fade day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
So radiant with hope, and love's dear spell, The perished bliss of youth's first prime And all on earth that breathes of joy or grace, That once so bright on fancy played
BREAK; break, break,
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Oh well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill, Oh well for the fisherman's boy,
But oh for the touch of a vanished hand, That he shouts with his sister at play!
And the sound of a voice that is still!