The Water! the Water ! The mournful pensive tone, That whispered to my heart how soon This weary life was done. The Water! the Water! That rolled so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful Was its soul's purity; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on it sought its grave. XV. THREE FANCIFUL SUPPOSES. WERE I a breath of viewless wind, As very spirits be, Where would I joy at length to find I was no longer free? Oh, Margaret's cheek, Whose blushes speak Love's purest sympathies, My prison-dome should rise: Were I a pranksome Elfin knight, Or eke the Faerye king, Who, when the moonshine glimmers bright, Loves to be wandering ; Where would I ride, In all the pride Of Elfin Chivalry, With each sweet sound Of Faerye minstrelsy ?— Were I a glossy plumaged bird, In Margaret's ear When none were near, I'd strain my little throat, To sing fond lays In Margaret's praise, That could not be forgot; Then on her bosom would I fall, XVI. A CAVEAT TO THE WIND. SING high, sing low, thou moody wind, It skills not-for thy glee Is ever of a fellow-kind With mine own fantasy. Go, sadly moan or madly blow In fetterless free will, Wild spirit of the clouds! but know Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee. Go, and with light and noiseless wing, Give to its voice a sweeter tone Of calm and heartfelt gladness; Or, to those old trees, woe-begone, Add moan of deeper sadness,— It likes me still; for I can be All sympathy of heart, like thee. Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse And in the blustering storm, carouse And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay What reck I, since I still dare be I love thy storm-shout on the land, Though shapes of death rise on each hand, With iron-cheek, that never showed The channel of a tear, With haughty heart, that never bowed I rush with thee o'er land and sea, Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim, For I, too, love such places lone, Blow as thou wilt, blow any where, Wild spirit of the sky, It matters not-earth, ocean, air, Still echoes to my cry, "I follow thee;" for, where thou art, My spirit, too, must be, While each chord of this wayward heart, Thrills to thy minstrelsy; And he that feels so sure must be Meet co-mate for a shrew like thee ! XVII. WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME? WHAT is Glory? What is Fame? * And fright PALE stars away.-MS. copy. A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ; A stream that hurries on its way, The last drop of a bootless shower, What is Fame? and what is Glory? O'er hill-top to more distant height, A bubble, blown by fond conceit, |