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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

ice appears.


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

gray beneath.


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.



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 ;
Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep :
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.


“ Alas! they had been friends in Youth;
“But whispering tongues can {poison truth;
“And constancy lives in realms above :
“ And Life is thorny; and youth is vain :
"And to be wroth with one we love,
“ Doth work like madness in the brain :

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“But never either found apother
To free the hollow heart from paining-
“ They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
“Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
“A dreary sea now flows between,
“But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
“Shall wholly do away, I ween,
"The marks of that which once hath been.

Coleridge's Christabel.

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,
Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's wo-
Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;

Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth-

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth

Is—that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!"

Though his care she must forego ?
When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,


soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done---all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well !--thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seard in heart, and lone, and blighted

More than this I scarce can die.


“ Honest-Honest Iago !
“ If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."


Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;

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