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النشر الإلكتروني

When I see I also feel thee;

Is it nothing, my beloved?

Thy luminous clear beauty
Brightens on me in my night,

I withdraw into my darkness
To allure thee into light.

About me and upon me I feel them pass

and stay,

About me, deep into me, every lucid tender ray. And thou, thou also feelest

When thou stealest

Shamefaced and half afraid

To the chamber of thy shade,
Thou in thy turn,

Thou too feelest

Something follow, something yearn,

A full orb blaze and burn.

My full orb upon thine,

As thine erst, gently smiling,
Softly wooing, sweetly wiling,
Gleamed on mine;

So mine on thine in turn

When thou feelest blaze and burn,

Is it nothing, my beloved?

My beloved, is it nothing

When I see thee and thou me,

When we each other see,
Is it nothing, my beloved?

Closer, closer come unto me.
Shall I see thee and no more?

I can see thee, is that all?
Let me also,

Let me feel thee,

Closer, closer, my beloved,

Come unto me, come to me, come!

O cruel, cruel lot, still thou rollest, stayest not, Lookest onward, look'st before,

Yet I follow, evermore.

Oh, cold and cruel fate, thou rollest on thy way, Scarcely lookest, will not stay,

From thine alien way.

The inevitable motion

Bears me forth upon the line
Whose course I cannot see.
I must move as it conveys me
Evermore. It so must be.

O cold one, and I round thee
Revolve, round only thee,
Straining ever to be nearer
While thou evadest stili;
Repellest still, O cold one,
Nay, but closer, closer, closer,

My beloved, come, come, come !

The inevitable motion

Carries both upon its line,

Also you as well as me.

What is best, and what is strongest,

We obey. It so must be.

Cruel, cruel, didst thou only
Feel as I feel evermore,
A force, though in, not of me,
Drawing inward, in, in, in.

Yea, thou shalt though, ere all endeth, Thou shalt feel me closer, closer,

My beloved, close, close to thee,

Come to thee, come, come, come !

The inevitable motion

Bears us both upon its line

Together, you as me,

Together and asunder,

Evermore. It so must be.

AT ROME.

O, RICHLY soiled and richly sunned,
Exuberant, fervid, and fecund!

Is this the fixed condition

On which may Northern pilgrim come,
To imbibe thine ether-air, and sum
Thy store of old tradition?

Must we be chill, if clean, and stand
Foot-deep in dirt on classic land?

So is it: in all ages so,

And in all places man can know,
From homely roots unseen below
The stem in forest, field, and bower,
Derives the emanative power

That crowns it with the ethereal flower,
From mixtures fœtid, foul, and sour
Draws juices that those petals fill.

Ah Nature, if indeed thy will
Thou own'st it, it shall not be ill!
And truly here, in this quick clime,

Where, scarcely bound by space or time,

The elements in half a day
Toss off with exquisitest play

What our cold seasons toil and grieve,
And never quite at last achieve ;
Where processes, with pain, and fear,
Disgust, and horror wrought, appear
The quick mutations of a dance,
Wherein retiring but to advance,
Life, in brief interpause of death,
One moment sitting taking breath,
Forth comes again as glad as e'er,
In some new figure full as fair,
Where what has scarcely ceased to be,
Instinct with newer birth we see-
What dies, already, look you, lives;
In such a clime, who thinks, forgives;
Who sees, will understand; who knows,
In calm of knowledge find repose,
And thoughtful as of glory gone,
So too of more to come anon,
Of permanent existence sure,
Brief intermediate breaks endure.
O Nature, if indeed thy will,
Thou ownest it, it is not ill!
And e'en as oft on heathy hill,
On moorland black, and ferny fells,
Beside thy brooks and in thy dells,
Was welcomed erst the kindly stain
Of thy true earth, e'en so again
With resignation fair, and meet
The dirt and refuse of thy street,
My philosophic foot shall greet,
So leave but perfect to my eye
Thy columns, set against thy sky!

LAST WORDS. NAPOLEON AND WELLINGTON.

NAPOLEON.

IS IT this, then, O world-warrior,
That, exulting, through the folds
Of the dark and cloudy barrier
Thine enfranchised eye beholds ?
Is, when blessed hands relieve thee
From the gross and mortal clay,

This the heaven that should receive thee!
'Tête d'armée.'

Now the final link is breaking,
Of the fierce, corroding chain,
And the ships, their watch forsaking,
Bid the seas no more detain,
Whither is it, freed and risen,
The pure spirit seeks away,
Quits for what the weary prison?
'Tête d'armée.'

Doubtless-angels, hovering o'er thee
In thine exile's sad abode,
Marshalled even now before thee,
Move upon that chosen road!

Thither they, ere friends have laid thee
Where sad willows o'er thee play,
Shall already have conveyed thee!
'Tête d'armée.'

Shall great captains, foiled and broken,

Hear from thee on each great day,

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