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IV. We were not cruel, yet did sunder His white wing from the blue waves under And bound it, while his fearless eyes Shone up to ours in calm surprise, As deeming us some ocean wonder!
We bore our ocean bird unto
vi. But flowers of earth were pale to him Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim; And when earth's dew around him lay He thought of ocean's wingéd spray, And his eye waxéd sad and dim.
VII. The green trees round him only made A prison with their darksome shade; And drooped his wing, and mournéd he For his own boundless glittering seaAlbeit he knew not they could fade.
Then One her gladsome face did bring,
TO L. E. L., REFERRING TO HER MONODY ON THE POETESS.
Thou bay-crowned living One that o'er the bay
crowned Dead art bowing, And o'er the shadeless moveless brow the vital
shadow throwing, And o'er the sighless songless lips the wail and music
wedding, And dropping o'er the tranquil eyes, the tears not
of their shedding !
Take music from the silent Dead, whose meaning
is completer, Reserve thy tears for living brows, where all such tears are meeter,
And leave the violets in the grass to brighten where
thou treadest! No flowers for her! no need of flowers-albeit
“bring flowers,' thou saidest.
Yes, flowers, to crown the 'cup and sute!' since
both may come to breaking. Or flowers, to greet the bride!' the heart's own
beating works its aching. Or flowers, to soothe the captive's' sight, from
earth's free bosom gathered, Reminding of his earthly hope, then withering as it
But bring not near the solemn corse, a type of
human seeming. Lay only dust’s stern verity upon the dust un
dreaming And while the calm perpetual stars shall look upon
it solely, Her spherèd soul shall look on them, with eyes
more bright and holy.
Nor mourn, O living One, because her part in life
was mourning. Would she have lost the poet's fire for anguish of
the burning? The minstrel harp, for the strained string? the tri
pod, for the afflated Woe? or the vision, for those tears in which it shone
Perhaps she shuddered while the world's cold hand
her brow was wreathing, But never wronged that mystic breath which
breathed in all her breathing, Which drew from rocky earth and man, abstractions
high and moving, Beauty, if not the beautiful, and love, if not the loving.
VII. Such visionings have paled in sight; the Saviour
she descrieth, And little recks who wreathed the brow which on
His bosom lieth. The whiteness of His innocence o'er all her gar
ments flowing, There, learneth she the sweet 'new song,' she will
not mourn in knowing.
Be happy, crowned and living One! and, as thy
dust decayeth, May thine own England say for thee, what now for
Her it sayethAlbeit softly in our ears her silver song was ringing, The foot-fall of her parting soul is softer than her
L. E. L.'S LAST QUESTION.
*Do you think of me as I think of you ?'
From her poem written during the voyage to the Cape.
'Do you think of me as I think of you, My friends, my friends ??—She said it from the sea, The English minstrel in her minstrelsy, While, under brighter skies than erst she knew, Her heart grew dark, and groped there, as the blind, To reach across the waves friends left behind'Do you think of me as I think of you?'
Love-learned she had sung of love and love,-