And dust is as it should be, shall I not

Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm?

The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot?

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?

Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego

Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below,

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?

THE POET AND THE WORLD.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 113, 114.)

I HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,

nor cried aloud

In worship of an echo; in the crowd

They could not deem me one of such; I stood

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still

could,

Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,

But let us part fair foes; I do believe,

Though I have found them not, that there may be

Words v hich are things, — hopes which will not de

ceive,

And virtues which are merciful, nor weave

Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

BEREAVEMENT.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanza 98.)

WHAT is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd:
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd,
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd.

LAST LEAVING ENGLAND.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iii. Stanzas 1, 2.)
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
ADA! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,

The winds lift up their voices: I depart,

Whither I know not; but the hour 's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad

mine eye.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar !
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,

Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

ENGLAND.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 8-10.)

I'VE taught me other tongues and in strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise;
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find

A country with - ay, or without mankind;

Yet was I born where men are proud to be,

Not without cause; and should I leave behind

The inviolate island of the sage and free,
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea,

Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay
My ashes in a soil which is not mine,
My spirit shall resume it - if we may
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine
My hopes of being remember'd in my line
With my land's language: if too fond and far
These aspirations in their scope incline,

If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar

My name from out the temple where the dead
Are honor'd by the nations- let it be -

And light the laurels on a loftier head!

And be the Spartan's epitaph on me —

66

'Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need;

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted, they have torn me,

and I bleed:

I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

RUINS TO RUINS.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 130, 131.)

OH Time! the beautifier of the dead,

Adorner of the ruin, comforter

And only healer when the heart hath bled

Time! the corrector where our judgments err,

The test of truth, love, - sole philosopher,
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift,
Which never loses though it doth defer -
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift

My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine

And temple more divinely desolate,

Among thy mightier offerings here are mine,
Ruins of years though few, yet full of fate:

If thou hast ever seen me too elate,

Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne

Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn?

THE DREAM.

I SAW two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,.
Green and of mild declivity, the last

As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man: