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STANZAS.

BY LORD BYRON.

REMIND me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours;
When all my soul was given to thee-
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget, canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh, by my soul! I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid-breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd, yet raised desire;
And still we near and nearer press'd-
And still our quivering lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire..

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek;
Veiling the azure orbs below-

While their long lashes' dark'ning gloss Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, Like raven's plumage smooth'd in snow.

THE FISHER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

THE water roll'd-the water swell'd,
A fisher sat beside;

Calmly his patient watch he held
Beside the freshening tide:
And while his patient watch he keeps,
The parted waters rose,
And from the oozy ocean deeps

A water maiden rose.

She spake to him, she sang to him—
"Why lurest thou so my brood,
With cunning art and cruel heart,
From out their native flood?

Ah! couldst thou know, how here below
Our peaceful lives glide o'er,

Thou'dst leave thine earth, and plunge beneath,
To seek our happier shore.

"Bathes not the golden sun his face

The moon too in the sea:

And rise they not from their resting place
More beautiful to see?

And lures thee not the clear deep heaven
Within the waters blue-

And thy form so fair, so mirror'd there
In that eternal dew!"

The water roll'd-the water swell'd,
It reach'd his naked feet;
He felt, as at his love's approach,
His bounding bosom beat;
She spake to him, she sang to him,
His short suspense is o'er;
Half drew she him, half dropp'd he in,

And sank to rise no more.

STANZAS.

I SAW her as she once did seem-
A form that haunts the poet's dream-
A ray from high, a moment felt,
With power to gladden and to melt,-
A white cloud wandering in the sky
So fill'd with heavenly light, the eye
Forgets that from our own dark earth
That thing of glory had its birth.

Sweet sister! even so didst thou
Appear, and so I see thee now-
Thy calm eyes, and thy soft light hair,
Thy cheek so pure, and pale, and fair,—
That when my soul thus dwells on thee,
I almost doubt if thou couldst be
(So heavenly bright, so meekly mild)
A fading flower, an earthly child.

Again I saw her-and though years
Had pass'd that fill'd my eyes with tears,
I knew that form where womanhood
Her summer bloom had gently strew'd;
And on her fair arm one did lean
With love confiding and serene,
On whose gray hairs she fix'd her eyes
In playful and yet pensive guise:

And as he folded to his breast

His darling child, and praised and bless'd,
For very joy the old man wept—
Oh! what an icy chillness crept
Throughout my veins, when that fair scene
I knew was but what might have been-
The blasted hope, the wither'd bloom,
That sleeps within her early tomb.

THE BRIDAL MORNING.

TEARS on thy bridal morning! Tears, my love!
It ought not thus to be. Why, my full heart
Is like the gladsome, long imprison'd bird,
Cleaving its way through the blue liquid arch
With liberty and song.
Those dropping pearls
Waste but thy bosom's wealth. "Twere well to keep
Such treasures for those long arrears which grief
Demands from the brief summer of our time.
I'll turn magician, dearest, and compute
What moves thy spirit thus. Remember'd joys,
Clustering so thickly round thy parents' hearth,
Put on bright robes at parting, and, perchance,
A mother's sympathy, or the fond clasp
Of thy young sister's snowy arms, do bind
Thine innocent soul in durance. Oh! my love!
Cast thy heart's gold into the furnace-flame,
And, if it come not thence refined and pure,
I'll be a bankrupt to thy hope, and heaven
Shall shut its gate on me. Come, sweetest, come!
The holy vow shall tremble on thy lip,
And at God's blessed altar shalt thou kneel
So meek and beautiful, that men will deem
Some angel there doth pray. Thou shalt then be
The turtle of my green and fragrant bower,
Trilling soft lays; and I will touch thy heart
With such strong warmth of deathless tenderness,
That all thy pictures of remember'd joy
Shall be as faded things. So be at rest,
My soul's beloved! and let thy rose-bud lip
Smile, as 'twas wont, in eloquent delight.

THE SONG OF THE CHARIB.

FATHER, whither art thou gone?
To the mountain's topmost stone?
In the darkness of the mine
Does thy prison spirit pine?
Dost thou still thy quiver fling
By the forest's shadowy spring?
Does the rushing buffalo
Hear the clanging of thy bow?
Dost thou haunt the gory ground
Where the shaft thy bosom found-
Where thy sons beheld thee die
With a Charib warrior's eye-
Where thy sons had blood for blood,
Raven's food for raven's food,
Scalp for scalp, and bone for bone,
Till our high revenge was done?

Spirit whither art thou gone?
To the regions of the noon;
To the valleys of the rose;
To the fountains of repose;
Where the silence sweet is stirr'd,
But by murmurs of the bird,-
But by echoes of the deep,
Heaving in its golden sleep,-
But by twilight melodies,
Falling from the dewy skies?

Spirit! whither art thou gone?
To the mystic northern zone;
Where the Night's lone majesty
Sits enthroned on earth and sky;
Where, upon the' eternal snow
Twice ten thousand splendours glow,

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