With thy burning measure suit; Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour of thy lute:

Well may the stars be mute!

VII.

Yes, heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

VIII.

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.

TO F

J.

BELOVED! amid the earnest woes
That crowd around my early path
(Drear path, alas! where grows
Not even one lonely rose),

My soul at least a solace hath

In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose.

II.

And thus thy memory is to me

Like some enchanted far-off isle

In some tumultuous sea

Some ocean, throbbing far and free With storms-but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually

Just o'er that one bright island smile.

H

ΤΟ

I HEED not that my earthly lot
Hath little of earth in it;
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I;
But that you sorrow for my fate,
Who am a passer-by.

SCENES FROM "POLITIAN,"

An unpublished Drama;

AND

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.