Showered on us, and the dove mourned in the pine, Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own. INDIAN. Your breath is like soft music, your words are But as you said— LADY. He was so awful, yet So beautiful in mystery and terror, Calming me as the loveliness of heaven Soothes the unquiet sea:-and yet not so, For he seemed stormy, and would often seem A quenchless sun masked in portentous clouds; For such his thoughts, and even his actions were; But he was not of them, nor they of him, But as they hid his splendour from the earth. Some said he was a man of blood and peril, And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips. More need was there I should be innocent, More need that I should be most true and kind, And much more need that there should be found one To share remorse, and scorn, and solitude, And all the ills that wait on those who do He fled, and I have followed him. INDIAN. Such a one Is he who was the winter of my peace. But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart From the far hills, where rise the springs of India? How didst thou pass the intervening sea? LADY. If I be sure I am not dreaming now, THE ISLE. THERE was a little lawny islet Like mosaic, paven ; And its roof was flowers and leaves Pierce the pines and tallest trees, Each a gem engraven ;— Girt by many an azure wave With which the clouds and mountains pave THE INVITATION. BEST and brightest, come away, Which like thee to those in sorrow, The brightest hour of unborn spring, Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, Away, away, from men and towns, Where the soul need not repress I leave this notice on my door "I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields. Reflection, you may come to-morrow, With smiles, nor follow where I go; This Radiant Sister of the Day, Awake, arise, and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun, Round stems that never kiss the sun, Where the lawns and pastures be And the sand-hills of the sea, Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new: When the night is left behind Where the earth and ocean meet, THE RECOLLECTION. Now the last day of many days, For now the Earth has changed its face, I. We wandered to the Pine Forest The whispering waves were half asleep, The smile of Heaven lay; |