VIII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed.
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,

But were a kind of nutriment; he lived

Through that which had been death to many men,

And made him friends of mountains: with the stars

And the quick Spirit of the Universe

He held his dialogues, and they did teach

To him the magic of their mysteries;

To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed.

A marvel and a secret.

Be it so.

ΙΧ.

My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality; the one

To end in madness, both in misery.

DIODATI, July, 1816.

STANZAS TO THE PO.

River, that rollest by the ancient walls,

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me;

What if thy deep and ample stream should be

A mirror of my heart, where she may read

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

What do I say, a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art :

And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever;
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away,

But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move;
Thou tendest wildly onward to the main,

And I to loving one I should not love.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharmed by summer's heat.

She will look on thee; I have looked on thee,

Full of that thought: and, from that moment, ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see Without the inseparable sigh for her!

Her bright eyes will be imaged by thy stream,
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:

Mine can not witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow!

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

But that which keepeth us apart is not

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,

But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood

Is all meridian, as if never fanned

By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,

I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love, at least of thee.

'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young;

Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

ON THE PO, April, 1819.

LORD THURLOW.

["Poet

Poems on Several Occasions." 1813.]

SINCE all I see, (and all I see is fair,)

But springs from Jove, who is the source of all,

And so of kindred with Olympus' air,

But images what thence divine we call; No fear there is, that, when my thread is spun, My golden thread, for love appoints it so, My heart with this soft passion should have done, Which ending, in Olympus would be woe:

For since this beauty is but type of thee,

And Nature but the mirror of thy love, Which oft the Angels may descend to see,

And find well pictured from their bliss above,

Thy memory in that immortal air,

All sights will keep, as in it's budding, fair.

Thy love is to my heart a boundless store

Of soft affection, which to love is near,

And those, that I have never prized before,

For thy dear sake are now to me most dear; Thy kindred, and thy friends, whose matchless worth, As lost in darkness, were to me unknown,

By pure example light my path on Earth,

And by their virtues my defects are shown: Then may I so improve the boundless grace,

Which from the marble air to me is sent,

That in my soul pure honour may have place,
And virtue her neglected stores augment:
For perfect in thyself thou art I see,
But yet more perfect in thy company.

I think you are the prophet of the Spring,
Or Spring doth on your gentle feet attend,
For ever do I note the Zephyr's wing,
When towards me your precious feet you bend :
The air is then impregnate with delight,
And Nature does her brightest sweets display,
But ah! too soon you wander from my sight,
And sorrow must usurp upon my day:

And yet the thought, that I have seen you then,
Supports me, till the morrow shall appear,

Again to seek you in the walks of men,
That are the star and Phoebus of my sphere:

So do I live in all vicissitude

Of joy and grief, of cvil and of good.

I called you, and too well these names you grace,

The World's divine, and merest paragon,

The violet, to whom all plants are base,

The star, that is but joy to look upon:

And are you not without compare the gem, That kings would in their thronéd pride possess,

To sparkle in the blazing diadem,

And the fair eyes of their true subjects bless?
Your title, and your style must be as great,
As is th' excelling beauty of your cheek,
Nor can I without fault one word abate,
Since all is less, than can your glory speak;
For let Olympus with your face compare,
And men shall own, that you are only fair.