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That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanos are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march

With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow ;,
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and the sunbeams with their convex gleams

Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.




Weep not for me, mother! because I must die,
And sink in death's coldness to rest;

Weep not for me, mother! because death is nigh,
I go to the home of the blest!

It is but a moment—a pang—and no more—

A struggle—and that to be free;
'Tis the spirit's last look on a journey that's o'er;

Oh death has no terror for me.

Weep not for me, mother I the Christian should fling

His frailties and fears to the wind;
But only in death when his spirit takes wing,

Can he leave them for ever behind.

Farewell to thee now—the mist thickens fast;

The cold hand is laid on my breast;
The moments are numbered—another— the last,

I go to the home of the blest! ,



Yet such the destiny of all on earth;
So flourishes and fades majestic man;
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,
And fostering gales a while the nursling fan.


O smile, ye heaveis, serene; yc mildews wan,
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,
Nor lessen of his life the little span.
Borne on the swift, though silent wings of time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn;
But lofty souls who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.
Shall I be left abandoned in the dust,
When fate relenting lets the flowers revive?
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive
With disappointment, penuiy, and pain?
No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive,
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,
Bright through the eternal year of love's triumphant reign.



I've seen the lovely garden flowers

In all their beauty glow;
I've seen the stormy hailstone showers

Lay all their glory low.

I've seen the youth in beauty's pride,

And highest health to-day, Before to-morrow's evening tide

A breathless lump of clay.

Then what's our life? a vapour sure;

Away it swiftly flies;
The joys of life, how insecure,

How trifling such a prize!

The hastening day will soon arrive,

When awful death shall come, And close the scene of this vain life

In darkness and the tomb.

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