LXXX.

HE STOOD ALONE.

He stood alone in an unpitying crowd-
His mates fell from him, as the grub worms drop
From the green stalk that once had nourished them,
But now is withered and all rottenness

Because it gave such shelter. Pleasure's train-
The light-winged tribes that seek the sunshine only-
No more endeavoured from his eye to win
The smile of approbation. Grief and Care
Stalked forth upon the theatre of his heart,
In many a gloomy and mishapen guise,
Till of the glories of his earlier self
The world, his base and hollow auditory,
Left but a ghastly phantom. As a tree,
A goodly tree-that stricken is and wasted,
By elemental conflicts-falls at last,
Even in the fulness of its branching honours,
Prostrate before the storm-yet majestic
In its huge downfal, so, at last, fell he !

LXXXI.

CUPID'S BANISHMENTE.

WHAT recke I now of comely dame?
What care I now for fair pucelle ?
Unscorchde I meet their glance of flame,
Unmovede I mark their bosoms swel,
For Love and I have sayde farewel!

Go, prattlynge fool!-go, wanton wilde !
Seke thy fond mother this to tel-
That loveliest maydes on me have smyled,
And that I stoutly did rebel,

And bade thee and thy arts farewel!

With me thy tyrant reigne is o'er,

Thou hear'st thy latest warninge knel; Speed, waywarde urchin, from my doore,My hert to thee gives no handsel, For thou and I have sworne farewel!

So trimme thy bow, and fleche thy shafte,
And peer where sillie gallants dwel,

On them essaye thy archer crafte,
No more on me thy bolte schal tel—
False Love and I have sunge farewel!

LXXXII.

THE SHIP OF THE DESERT.

"ONWARD, my Camel !-On, though slow;
Halt not upon these fatal sands!
Onward my constant Camel go—
The fierce Simoom hath ceased to blow,
We soon shall tread green Syria's lands!

"Droop not my faithful Camel ! Now The hospitable well is near !

Though sick at heart, and worn in brow, I grieve the most to think that thou

And I may part, kind comrade, here!

"O'er the dull waste a swelling moundA verdant paradise-I see ;

The princely date-palms there abound,
And springs that make it sacred ground
To pilgrims like to thee and me!"

The patient Camel's filmy eye,

All lustreless, is fixed in death!
Beneath the sun of Araby

The desert wanderer ceased to sigh,
Exhausted on its burning path.

Then rose upon the Wilderness
The solitary Driver's cry:
Thoughts of his home upon him press,
As, in his utter loneliness,

He sees his burden-bearer die.

Hope gives no echo to his call—

Ne'er from his comrade will he sever!

The red sky is his funeral pall;

A prayer a moan

-'tis over, all

Camel and lord now rest for ever!

A three hour's journey from the spring
Loved of the panting Caravan—

Within a little sandy ring-
The Camel's bones lie whitening,

With thine, old, unlamented man!

LXXXIII.

THE POET'S WISH.

WOULD that in some wild and winding glen Where human footstep ne'er did penetrate,

And from the haunts of base and selfish men
Remote, in dreamy loneness situate,

I had my dwelling and within my ken

:

Nature desporting in fantastic form—

Asleep in green repose, and thundering in the storm!

Then mine should be a life of deep delight,

Rare undulations of ecstatic musing;
Thoughts calm, yet ever-varying, stream bedight
With flowers immortal of quick Fancy's choosing-

And like unto the ray of tremulous light,

Blent by the pale moon with the entranced water,
I'd wed thee, Solitude, dear Nature's first-born daughter!

LXXXIV.

ISABELLE.

A SERENADE.

HARK! Sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute,

As softly it plaineth o'er

The story of one to whose lowly suit
Thy heart shall beat no more!
List to its tender plaints, my love,
Sad as the accents of saints, my love
Who mortal sin deplore!

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake,
"Tis sorrow that tunes these strings ;
A last farewell would the minstrel take
Of her whose beauty he sings :

The moon seems to weep on her way, my love,
And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love,
No hope with the morning springs !

Deep on the breeze peals the hollow sound
Of the dreary convent bell;

Its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round,
Will girdle my Isabelle !

They'll take thee away from these arms, love, And bury thy blossoming charms, love, Where midnight requiems swell.

At the high altar I see thee kneel,
With pallid and awe-struck face;
I see the veil those looks conceal

That shone with surpassing grace—
The shade will prey on thy bloom, my love,
While I shall wend to the tomb, my love,
And leave of my name no trace.

We lov'd and we grew, we grew and we lov'd, Twin flowers in a dewy vale;

The churchman's cold hand hath one removed,
The other will soon wax pale :

O fast will be its decline, my love,
As this dying note of mine, my love,
Lost in the evening gale!

LXXXV.

WHAT IS THIS WORLD TO ME?

WHAT is this world to me?

A harp sans melodie;

A dream of vain idlesse,

A thought of bitterness,
That grieves the aching brain,
And gnaws the heart in twain !