The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thy head; The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet. The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest: yet till the phantoms flee Which that house, and heath, and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile. MUTABILITY. We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon; How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon Night closes round, and they are lost for ever; Or, like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings We rest a dream has power to poison sleep; It is the same! For, be it joy or sorrow, LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I ARISE from dreams of thee Has led me-who knows how ?- The wandering airs they faint Like sweet thoughts in a dream; As I must on thine, Oh lift me from the grass! STANZAS. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, Like many a voice of one delight, I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: 1 sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, How sweet! did any heart now share in Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, my And walk'd with inward glory crown'd emotion. Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround Smiling they live, and call life pleasure: To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his [head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory: We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But left him alone with his glory. SONG. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be! And I on thee should look my last, And still upon that face I look, And still the thought I will not brook, But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, |