And the light, wave-broken,

Shimmers on the sea,

Do I sit here, waiting

Nevermore for thee?

But for thee my fancy

Chose these garments white,

Wove the tufted roses

But for thy delight;

But for thee this diamond,

Darling of the mine,

Glistens in the ear-drop

Like a tear of thine, -
Like a tear, that, welling

From thy happy breast,

Where thy vows were whispered,

Waiteth to be blest.

Beasts in yonder meadow

Lightly choose a mate,

Missing, scarce a day's length

Wonder they, and wait;

But the ewe lamb's mother

Bleateth long and sore;

Thrush, in yonder covert,

Sorroweth evermore;

Choking with a spasm

In her silver strain,

"Dear delight of summer,

Come again, again!"

Not that thou shouldst leave me,

Thou, ethereal born;

But that I survive thee,

That is grief and scorn.

Poor in form and stature,

Pale and dull of hue,

By thy creed of beauty

Towards thy wish I grew,

Fought with Time and Nature,

Conquered bitter pain,

Keeping thievish footsteps

From thy dear domain.

From that task delightsome,

Grief-absolved I lie;

Free to pine and perish,

Love, since thou canst die.

While the trees, like mourners,

Bear my azure pall,

Let the whirlwind scatter,

Let the ashes fall,

Striving towards no heaven

Dim and distant far:

Only where thou dwellest

The Immortals are.

SIMPLE TALES.

I.

WHAT are they bringing to this grave,

O Sexton pale and old?

What blossom white, or blasted root,

Must underlie this mould?

Hark to the bell! I cannot tell :

We dig the grave, and ring the knell.

If you must ask that married pair,

That move so stiff and sad,

With snow-flakes thickening in their hair,

In new-dyed sables clad;

The kerchief busy at their eyes,

That way, methinks, the burthen lies.

In yonder moss-clad church, their pew
Showed once a gracious child,

A laughing imp of rosy hue

In glee and mischief wild.

To manhood grown, he went away,
Returning in an evil day.

66

Ho, rascals!" cries he, "take my beast;

Haste there, and let me in;

My father keeps a sorry feast,

My mother's sour and thin.

I've come to change their ways a bit;

Fetch brandy, fill a bumper fit!

Squire, I have debts in yonder town;

I fling the careless card;

My tradesmen press their bills, and frown;

My creditors are hard.

This world is not a mother's breast,

No cradle, for a babe to rest.”