In the husk of a brute,-that no pity may name
The man that I was,-that no kindred may claim
The monster I am! Let me utterly be

Brute-buried, and Nature's dishonour with me Uninscribed!"-But she listen'd my prayer, that was praise

To her malice, with smiles, and advised me to gaze
On the river for love, and perchance she would make
In pity a maid without
eyes for my sake,
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
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.

my

face

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 warm 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
From the flower 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

On

my

In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss
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 heaven, 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.

I.

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,
Shedding its chilling superstition most
young and ignorant natures-as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont

On

II.

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of

prayer,

Behold two maidens, up the quiet green

Shining, far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes,-sailing as if they were

Two far-off ships,-until they brush between The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate.

III.

And there they stand with haughty-necks before God's holy house, that points towards the skiesFrowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, With pouting lips,-forgetful of the grace,

Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;—

IV.

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,
May wear the happiness of rich attire ;

And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds;-and for health denied,— With art, that blushes at itself, inspire Their languid cheeks and flourish in a glory That has no life in life, nor after-story.

V.

The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r,
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by.
Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so grey in goodness and in days?

Y