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III.

Our trysted hour long since hath rung

From every neighbouring tower;
The nightingale her hymn hath sung,

To hail the twilight hour;
Then what can stay my Lady-love,

Why tarries she so late?
'Tis past her time—the turtle dove

Is nestled with his mate—

IV.

A step is on the yielding grass,

Light as the morning dew;
And ah! the flowers that feel her pass,

Rise brighter to the view;
'Tis she herself who treads the grove,

With fleetest, foot to me,
My Lady-love! my Lady-love!

All welcome be to thee!

William Anderson. THE PAINS OF SLEEP.

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,

It hath not been my use to pray

With moving lips or bended knees;

But silently, by slow degrees,

My spirit I to love compose,

In humble trust my eye-lids close

With reverential resignation,

No wish conceived, no thought expressed I

Only a sense of supplication,

A sense o'er all my soul imprest

That I am weak, yet not unblest,

Since in me, round me, every where,

Eternal strength and wisdom are.

But yester-night I prayed aloud,

In anguish and in agony,

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me,

A lurid light, a trampling throng,

Sense of intolerable wrong,

And whom 1 scorned, those only strong! *

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
Still baffled, and yet burning still!
Desire with loathing strangely mixed
On wild or hateful objects fixed.

Fantastic passions! maddening brawl I
And shame and terror over all!
Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
Which all confused I could not know,
Whether I suffered, or I did:
For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,
My own or others still the same,
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame!

So two nights passed: the night's dismay

Saddened and stunned the coming day.

Sleep, the wide blessing seemed to me

Distemper's worst calamity.

The third night, when my own loud scream

Had waked me from the fiendish dream,

O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,

I wept as I had been a child;

And having thus by tears subdued

My anguish to a milder mood,

Such punishments, I said, were due

To natures deepliest stained with sin:
For aye entempesting anew
Th' unfathomable hell within,
The horror of their deeds to view,
To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
Such griefs with such men well agree,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?
To be beloved is all I need,
And whom I love, I love indeed.

Coleridge.

THE WARRIOR'S DIRGE.

Last of a high and noble name,

We may not shed a tear for thee,
Thy fall was in the noon of fame,

As warrior's fall should be.
OW thy fair morn, like cloud of night,

Awhile thy youthful errors lay,
But touched like that by heaven's own light,

Were early wept away.

Thy steps are missed by wood and wave,
Lost to the scenes thy youth loved best,

The torrents weep, the tempests rave

Above thy bed of rest.
The hounds howl sadly at thy gate,

The echoes of the chase are o'er,
In vain the long—long night they wait,

The hunter comes no more.

No voice is heard amid thy halls,

Except the wild winds fitful sigh,
The morning beam that gilds thy walls

It cannot glad thine eye.
All lonely bloom the summer flowers,

Thy garden's silent walks along;
The wild bird warbles thro' its bowers,

Thou canst not hear her song.

Cold is the heart that lovest thee now,

'Twas broken ere it ceased to breathe; Alas! what bids the hero's grow,

Must blight the bridal wreath. From blood the warrior's laurel sprung,

Midst blood and tears can only bloom; 'lis but a funeral garland hung

Above his mouldering tomb.

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