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Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself
comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its
own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our
tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth
distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their
former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and
Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a
vanish'd scene : As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish
though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep ;
As an infant's asleep :
FARE THEE WELL.
“ Alas! they had been friends in Youth;
“But never either found apother
FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee
Though it smile upon the blow,
Founded on another's wo-
Could no other arm be found
To inflict a cureless wound?
Love may sink by slow decay,
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
Is—that we no more may meet.
Than the wail above the dead;
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
When our child's first accents flow,
Though his care she must forego ?
When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my madness none can know;
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Pride which not a world could bow,
soul forsakes me now:
Words from me are vainer still;
Force their way without the will.
Torn from every nearer tie,
More than this I scarce can die.
“ Honest-Honest Iago !
Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,