Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellised rays from Heaven
No mote may shun-no tiniest fly-
The lightning of his eagle eye-
How was it that Ambition crept,

Unseen, amid the revels there,

Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt In the tangles of Love's very hair?

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ΤΟ

Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined,

Then desolately fall,

O God! on my funereal mind

Like starlight on a pall—

Thy heart-thy heart!—I wake and sigh,

And sleep to dream till day

Of the truth that gold can never buy— Of the baubles that it may.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,

So trembled from afar

What could there be more purely bright

In Truth's day-star?

ROMANCE.

OMANCE, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet

Hath been-a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years

So shake the very heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings-