Therefore no poet will ungently touch
The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew
Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such

As human pain may wander through and through,
Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue-

Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd.
By magic spells. Alas! who ever knew
Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed,
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed?

And now the winged song has scaled the height Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, And soon a little casement flashing bright Widens self-open'd into the cool airThat music like a bird may enter there And soothe the captive in his stony cage; For there is nought of grief, or painful care, But plaintive song may happily engage From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage.

And forth into the light, small and remote,
A creature, like the fair son of a king,
Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat
Against the silver moonlight glistening,
And leans upon his white hand listening
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan,
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone.

And while he listens, the mysterious song,
Woven with timid particles of speech,
Twines into passionate words that grieve along
The melancholy notes, and softly teach
The secrets of true love,—that trembling reach
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun
He missions like replies, and each to each

Their silver voices mingle into one,

Like blended streams that make one music as they run.

"Ah! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart,—” “Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high—” "Alas! our lips are held so far apart,

Thy words come faint,— they have so far to fly !—” "If I may only shun that serpent-eye,—” "Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep ;—” “Then, nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die!—” "Alas, alas! that word has made we weep! For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep!"

“My marble keep! it is my marble tomb—”

66

66

Nay, sweet! but thou hast there thy living breath—”

'Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom;—”

"But I will come to thee and sing beneath,

And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath ;

“Nay, I will find a path from these despairs,”

“Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death, Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs.—

Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares!"

Full sudden at these words, the princely youth Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth, But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay— Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, Held some short throbs by natural dismay, Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way.

Now dimly seen-now toiling out of sight,
Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall ;

Now fair and spangled in the sudden light,
And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall;
Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe;
Slowly he winds adown-dimly and small,
Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below,
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow.

But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace
The marble walls about-which he must tread
Before his anxious foot may touch the base :
Long is the dreary path, and must be sped!
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread,
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil
He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread
Impatient plunges from the last long coil:
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil!

The song is hush'd, the charm is all complete,
And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake:
But scarce their tender bills have time to meet,
When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake--
His steely scales a fearful rustling make,
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell
The sable storm;—the plumy lovers quake—
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell,
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell.

His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death,
Hiss horrible pursuit-his red eyes glare

The waters into blood-his eager breath

Grows hot upon their plumes:-now, minstrel fair! She drops her ring into the waves, and there

It widens all around, a fairy ring

Wrought of the silver light—the fearful pair Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.

Bending their course over the pale grey lake,
Against the pallid East, wherein light play'd
In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake
Circled them round continually, and bay'd
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade
The sanctuary ring-his sable mail

Roll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made

A shining track over the waters pale,

Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous tail.

And so they sail'd into the distance dim,
Into the very distance-small and white,
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim
Over the brooklets-follow'd by the spite
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy,
Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light,
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy,
Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy!

Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes
Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers
The Oriental sun began to rise,

Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies;
Wherewith that sable Serpent far away
Fled, like a part of night-delicious sighs
From waking blossoms purified the day,

And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray.

STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS.

TOM ;-are you still within this land
Of livers-still on Hastings' sand,
Or roaming on the waves?

Or has some billow o'er you rolled,
Jealous that earth should lap so bold
A seaman in her graves?

On land the rushlight lives of men
Go out but slowly; nine in ten,
By tedious long decline-

Not so the jolly sailor sinks,

Who founders in the wave, and drinks

The apoplectic brine !

Ay, while I write, mayhap your head
Is sleeping on an oyster-bed-
I hope 'tis far from truth!—
With periwinkle eyes;—your bone
Beset with mussels, not your own,
And corals at your tooth!

Still does the Chance pursue the chance
The main affords-the Aidant dance
In safety on the tide?

Still flies that sign of my good-will*

A little bunting thing-but still
To thee a flag of pride?

Does that hard, honest hand now clasp

The tiller in its careful grasp→

* My father made Woodgat.. a present, in the shape of a small flag.