Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, The counter-weights!-Thy laughter and thy tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create And to repay each other! Why rejoices Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold? Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? SUNG BY GLYCINE IN ZAPOLYA, A SUNNY shaft did I behold, Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted! He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled All else of amethyst ! And thus he sang: Adieu! adieu! 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. Leave the hearth and leave the house With babe and lambkin at her feet. To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY AN ALLEGORY ON the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, This far outstript the other; For he, alas! is blind! O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, And knows not whether he be first or last. ISRAEL'S LAMENT ? 1815. Translation of 'A Hebrew Dirge, chaunted in the Great Synagogue, St. James's Place, Aldgate, on the day of the Funeral of her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte. By Hyman Hurwitz, Master of the Hebrew Academy, Highgate, 1817. MOURN, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn! Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away Earn'd by long pangs and lost ere won. While Grief in song shall seek repose, We will take up a Mourning yearly: To wail the blow that crush'd the Rose, So dearly priz'd and lov'd so dearly. 40 Long as the fount of Song o'erflows Will I the yearly dirge renew: Mourn for the firstling of the Rose That snapt the stem on which it grew. The proud shall pass, forgot; the chill, Damp, trickling Vault their only mourner ! Not so the regal Rose, that still Clung to the breast which first had worn her! An old man with a steady look sublime, That stops his earthly task to watch the skies; But he is blind eyes ; Is gone, and the birch in its stead is The Knight's bones are dust, With scant white hairs, with foretop bald WITH Donne, whose muse on drome And whistled and roar'd in the winter IT may indeed be phantasy when I alone, Essay to draw from all created things |