His breath was a chain which without a sound Then the weeds which were forms of living death Their decay and sudden flight from frost And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant First there came down a thawing rain And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, And a northern whirlwind, wandering about When winter had gone and spring came back The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels, Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. CONCLUSION. Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that Whether that lady's gentle mind, I dare not guess; but in this life It is a modest creed, and yet That garden sweet, that lady fair, And all sweet shapes and odours there, In truth have never past away: 'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they. For love, and beauty, and delight, Last Love Poems. TO EDWARD WILLIAMS. THE serpent is shut out from paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; But, not to speak of love, pity alone Turns the mind's poison into food, Its medicine is tears, its evil good. Therefore, if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot The very comfort that they minister I scarce can bear, yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. When I return to my cold home, you ask You spoil me for the task Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,— Of wearing on my brow the idle mask Of author, great or mean, In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot With various flowers, and every one still said, "She loves me- -loves me not." And if this meant a vision long since fled-If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought— If it meant, but I dread To speak what you may know too well: Still there was truth in the sad oracle. The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, When it no more would roam; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, And thus at length find rest. Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease. I asked her, yesterday, if she believed bade but what his judgment Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved. To send to you, but that I know, 1821. SONG. RARELY, rarely, comest thou, Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day How shall ever one like me Spirit false thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismayed; Even the sighs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear. |