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One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmask'd, and being seen - without a blot !
O! let me have thee whole,-all-all-be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss, those hands, those eyes
divine,

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That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured

breast,

Yourself- your soul

in pity give me all,

Withhold no atom's atom, or I die,
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes-the palate of my mind
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

XX.

KEATS'S LAST SONNET.

BRIGHT star, would I were steadfast as thou art! Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:
No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel forever its soft fall and swell,
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever - or else swoon to death.*

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Half-passionless, and so swoon on to death.

THE END.

XII.

TO SLEEP.

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;

Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;

Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole ;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

XIII.

ON FAME.

FAME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease.
She is a Gipsey,— will not speak to those

Who have not learnt to be content without her;
A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,
Who thinks they scandal her who talk about
her;

A very Gipsey is she, Nilus-born,

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;

ye

are!

Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

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