And the giddy stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamoured moon Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiades, even,
Which were seven),

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty-Where Love's a grown-up God

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song ;
To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest !
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit--
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervour of thy lute-
Well may the stars be mute!

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

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.

SILENCE.

ΤΗ

HERE are some qualities-some incorporate things,

That have a double life, which thus is made

A type of that twin entity which springs

From matter and light, evinc'd in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence-sea and shore

Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown ;

graces,

some

Some human memories and tearful lore,

solemn

Render him terrorless : his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;

But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)

Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God!

TO ZANTE.

AIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,

FAIR

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! How many memories of what radiant hours At sight of thee and thine at once awake!

How many scenes of what departed bliss!

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes ! How many visions of a maiden that is

No more no more upon thy verdant slopes ! No more! alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no

more,

Thy memory no more!

Accursed ground!

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, Ɔ hyacinthine isle ! O purple Zante !

"Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

HOU wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart

THOU

From its present pathway part not!

Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love a simple duty.

BRIDAL BALLAD.

"HE ring is on my hand,

THE

And the wreath is on my brow;

Satins and jewels grand

Are all at my command,

And I am happy now.

And my lord he loves me well;

But, when first he breathed his vow,

I felt my bosom swell

For the words rang as a knell,

And the voice seemed his who fell

In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.

But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the churchyard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
“Oh, I am happy now!"

And thus the words were spoken,
And thus the plighted vow;