VI.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Every thing almost

Which is Nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.

VII.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess

The things I seek, not love them less.

VIII.

I love Love- though he has wings,

And like light can flee,

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life! Oh, come,

Make once more my heart thy home.

HE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.

What is this world's delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

II.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship how rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all

Which ours we call.

III.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou-and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

Stanza'

IF I walk in Autumn's even
While the dead leaves pass,

If I look

heaven,

on Spring's soft

Something is not there which was.
Winter's wondrous frost and snow,

Summer's clouds, where are they now?

'Perhaps in continuation of "To-morrow."— ED.

Lines Written on Hearing

the News of the Death of Napoleon

HAT! alive and so bold, oh earth!

Art thou not overbold?

What! leapest thou forth as of old

In the light of thy morning mirth,

The last of the flock of the starry fold?
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?

Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?

How! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth?
How! is not his death-knell knolled?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth?

Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O'er the embers covered and cold

Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled —

What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?

"Who has known me of old," replied Earth, "Or who has my story told?

It is thou who art overbold."

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth my bosom I fold

As she

"To sung,

All my sons when their knell is knolled,

And so with living motion all are fed,

And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.

"Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth,

I grow bolder and still more bold.

The dead fill me ten thousandfold

Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth.

I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,

Like a frozen chaos uprolled,

Till by the spirit of the mighty dead

My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.