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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,
Would be the site,
Where gleaming bright,

My prison-dome should rise:
I'd live upon that rosy shore,
And fan it with soft sighs,
Nor other paradise explore
Beneath the skies.

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
Far floating round,

Of Faerye minstrelsy ?—
"Tis o'er her neck of drifted snow,
Her passion-breathing lip,
Her dainty chin and noble brow,
That I would trip.

Were I a glossy plumaged bird,
A small glad voice of song,
Where would my love-lays aye be heard-
Where would I nestle long?—

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,
And from it never part-
Dizzy with joy, and proud to call
My home her heart!

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
I ride thy comrade still;
Loving thy humours, I can be

Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee.

Go, and with light and noiseless wing,
Fan yonder murmuring stream—
Brood o'er it, as the sainted thing,
The spirit of its dream;

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
The billows of the deep;

And in the blustering storm, carouse
With fiends that never weep.
Go, tear each fluttering rag away,
Outshriek the mariner,

And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay
Of death and shipwreck drear ;—

What reck I, since I still dare be
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless, like thee?

I love thy storm-shout on the land,
Thy storm-shout on the sea;

Though shapes of death rise on each hand,
Dismay troops not with me.

With iron-cheek, that never showed

The channel of a tear,

With haughty heart, that never bowed
Beneath a dastard fear,

I rush with thee o'er land and sea,
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee.

Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim,
Where ghosts at midnight stray,
To pour abroad unearthly hymn,
And fright the stars away ? *
Add to their sighs thy hollow tone
Of saddest melancholy-

For I, too, love such places lone,
And court such guests unjolly :
Such haunts, such mates, in sooth, to me
Be welcome as they are to thee.

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?
The echo of a long lost name;

* And fright PALE stars away.-MS. copy.

A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ;
The shadow of an arrant nought ;
A flower that blossoms for a day,
Dying next morrow;

A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow ;—

The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast-
This is the World's fame at the best!

What is Fame? and what is Glory?
A dream-a jester's lying story,
To tickle fools withal, or be
A theme for second infancy;
A joke scrawled on an epitaph ;
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh ;
A visioning that tempts the eye,
But mocks the touch-nonentity ;
A rainbow, substanceless as bright,
Flitting for ever

O'er hill-top to more distant height,
Nearing us never;

A bubble, blown by fond conceit,
In very sooth itself to cheat;
The witch-fire of a frenzied brain;
A fortune, that to lose were gain ;
A word of praise, perchance of blame ;
The wreck of a time-bandied name,—
Ay, This is Glory! this is Fame !

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