V.

THE SUBJECT OF BABYLON CONTINUED.

AND on the top of all the wind-blown towers,
The thronging terraces, and ramparts fair,
And the flat house-roof scorching in the air,
Elysian gardens bloomed with breadths of flowers,
And clouds of moist green leaves, that tenderly
Cooled the fierce radiance sight could scarcely bear;
Or over grassy lawns hung fluttering high,
Like birds upon the wing, half pausing there;
Shadows, where winds drooped lingering with a sigh.
And there were fountains all of beaten gold,
That seemed alive with staring imagery,
Fantastical as death; from which forth rolled,

Like spirits out of Sleep's enchanted ground,
Far-flashing streams, that flung a light all round.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

I.

SONNET.

LIKE an enfranchised bird, that wildly springs,
With a keen sparkle in his glancing eye,
And a strong effort in his quivering wings,
Up to the blue vault of the happy sky, -
So

my enamored heart, so long thine own,
At length from Love's imprisonment set free,
Goes forth into the open world alone,
Glad and exulting in its liberty:

But like that helpless bird (confined so long,
His weary wings have lost all power to soar)
Who soon forgets to trill his joyous song,

And, feebly fluttering, sinks to earth once more,
So from its former bonds released in vain,

My heart still feels the weight of that remembered chain.

II.

TO MY BOOKS.

SILENT companions of the lonely hour, —
Friends who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,-
Let me return to you; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought,
Till haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
'T will be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.

MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

I.

EXPRESSIONLESS.

WITH stammering lips and insufficient sound,
I strive and struggle to deliver right

That music of my nature, day and night,

With dream and thought and feeling, interwound,

And inly answering all the senses round

With octaves of a mystic depth and height,

Which step out grandly to the infinite

From the dark edges of the sensual ground!

This song of soul I struggle to outbear

Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,

And utter all myself into the air;

But if I did it, as the thunder-roll

Breaks its own cloud,

my

flesh would perish there,

Before that dread apocalypse of soul !

II.

TEARS.

THANK God, bless God, all ye who suffer not

More grief than ye can weep for. That is well,
That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,

Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.

--

Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,
The mother singing; at her marriage-bell,

The bride weeps; and before the oracle

Of high-faned hills, the poet hath forgot

That moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, Whoever weep; albeit, as some have done,

Ye grope tear-blinded, in a desert place,

And touch but tombs,

look up! Those tears will run

Soon, in long rivers, down the lifted face,

And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.