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In all beholders deep they mark,
That thou betrayest not one spark
Of feeling for the ruthless deed,
That did thy praiseful dance succeed.
For on the head they make you look,
As if a sullen joy you took,
A cruel triumph, wicked pride,
That for your sport a saint had died.

Thou pretty art and fair,
But with the lady Blanch thou never must com-

No need for Blanch her history to tell ;
Whoever saw her face, they there did read it

well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years








my fame,

The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears,
To the Urs’line convent hastens, and long the WHILE young John runs to greet
Abbess hears,

The greater Infant's feet, “O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly The Mother standing by, with trembling life ye lead.”

passion Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to Of devout admiration, heed.

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, adoration; and thought

Nor knows as yet the full event On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun Of those so low beginnings, had taught.

From whence we date our winnings, “I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines But wonders at the intent

Of those new rites, and what that strange child. “ All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's

worship meant.

But at her side “ Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud An angel doth abide, from the tree,

With such a perfect joy “My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's As no dim doubts alloy, gone from me.

An intuition,
But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er A glory, an amenity,

Passing the dark condition
“ And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among Of blind humanity,
the noble dead,

As if he surely knew “ This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly All the blest wonder should ensue, fear,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere, “ It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd And had read all the sovran schemes and divine here."

riddles there.


my head,





Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place
Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?
Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.

MATERNAL lady with the virgin grace,
Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,
And thou a virgin pure.
Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face
Men look upon, they wish to be
A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.

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METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclined
U are not, Kelly, of the common strain,

Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
That stoop their pride and female honour down Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
To please that many-headed beast the town,

Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain ; Aught envying. And, O Anna ! mild-eyed maid !
By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, Beloved ! I were well content to play
You keep your native dignity of thought;

With thy free tresses all a summer's day,
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,

Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. As tributes due unto your natural vein.

Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Your tears have passion in them, and a grace

Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;

A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot And I would teach thee, hady, how to rail trace,

In gentle sort, on those who practise not
That vanish and return we know not how Or love or pity, though of woman born.
And please the better from a pensive face,
A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,

Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,

Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,

Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
QUEEN-BIRD that sittest on thy shining-nest,
And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, Her image only in these pleasant ways

No more I hear her footsteps in the shade
And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest

Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days Lest the white mother wandering feet molest :

I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,

I pass'd the little cottage which she loved, Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst

The cottage which did once my all contain ; Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first

It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able

Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. To tread the land or waters with security.

Now fair befall thee, gentle maid !” said I,
poor human births, conceived in sin,

And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.
In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
The births of heaven like to yours would shine.


What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,
Was it some sweet device of Faery

Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,
That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, Without reproach? we trace our stream no
And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid ? higher ;
Have these things been? or what rare witchery, And I, a childless man, may end the same.
Impregning with delights the charmèd air, Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,
Enlighted up the semblance of a smile

In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,
In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while Received thee first amid the merry mocks
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
To drop the murdering knife, and let go by Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd,
His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd
Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid ? Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? Took His meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd,
While I forlorn do wander reckless where, Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings camo,
And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there. No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.

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Betwixt our ages, which then seem'd so great

And still by rightful custom you retain IF from my lips some angry accents fell,

Much of the old authoritative strain, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, And keep the elder brother up in state. 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind

0! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, To let the “things that have been" run to waste, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me And in the unmeaning present sink the past : Let this my verse the poor atonement be In whose dim glass even now I faintly read My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Too highly, and with a partial eye to see Which you, and I, and one more, only know. No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay

O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,

That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.

Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep
Like to a child. For now to my raised mind
On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy,
And her rude visions give severe delight.

O winged bark ! how swift along the night
A TIMID grace sits trembling in her eye,

Pass'd thy proud keel ! nor shall I let go by As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,

Lightly of that drear hour the memory, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy

When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:

Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood, Speaking most plain the thoughts which do Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,

To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, possess

Or take my portion with the winds that rave. Her gentle sprite : peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity : A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;

We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart

The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turu'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet we two did love each other's company;

And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.

Time was, we two had wept to have been apart
But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
I left the garb and manners of a child,

And my first love for man's society,

Defiling with the world my virgin heart-

My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled,
John, you were figuring in the gay career And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art-
When I was yet a little peevish boy-

In what delicious Eden to be foundThough time has made the difference disappear That I may seek thee the wide world around!





That reverend form bent down with age and

pain, In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse

And rankling malady. Yet not for this Upon the days gone by; to act in thought

Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ;

Her trust in him, her faith, an humble hope To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slopo,

So meekly had she learn’d to bear her crossDown which the child would roll; to pluck gay For she had studied patience in the school flowers,

Of Christ ; much comfort she had thence derived, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand

And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled),
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.

The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard,

Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice

Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims

Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when On the green hill top, Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, Of the contemplant, solitary man, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn, Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,

to lure
The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
The name and date to the chance passenger. And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
For lowly born was she, and long had eat, And baffles his pursuit—thought-sick and tired
Well-earn'd, the bread of service :-hers was else Of controversy, where no end appears,
A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd

No clue to his research, the lonely man
Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Half wishes for society again.
Or aught unseemly. I remember well

Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute Her reverend image; I remember, too,

Sudden/ his heart awakes, his ears drink in
With what a zeal she served her master's house; The cheering music; bis relenting soul
And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Yearns after all the joys of social life,
Delighted to recount the oft-told tale

And softens with the love of human kind.
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,
And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,
And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
Of births, of titles, and alliances ;

Of marriages, and intermarriages;
Relationship remote, or near of kin;

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, Of friends offended, family disgraced

A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying In the bright visions of empyreal light, Parental strict injunction, and regardless By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,

Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; Stooping to wed with one of low degree. By crystal streams, and by the living waters, But these are not thy praises ; and I wrong Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly

Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, From pain and want, and all the ills that wait She served her heavenly Master. I have seen On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.

Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.

down From broken visions of perturbèd rest

By her enormous fablings and mad lies, I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.

Discredit on the gospel's serious truths How total a privation of all sounds,

And salutary fears. The man of parts, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,

Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates heaven.

A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry

Their heads encompassèd with crowns, their Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise

heels Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.

With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Those are the moanings of the dying man,

Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far reWho lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,

moved And interrupted only by a cough

From damnèd spirits, and the torturing cries Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth, So in the bitterness of death he lies,

As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, And waits in anguish for the morning's light.

Belike his kindred or companions onceWhat can that do for him, or what restore ? Through everlasting ages now divorced, Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices,

In chains and savage torments to repent And little images of pleasures past,

Short years of folly on earth. Of health, and active life-health not yet slain,

unheard Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold

In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb
He writhes, and turns him from the accusing The delicate sense and most divine repose

Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
And finds no comfort in the sun, but says The measure of his judgments is not fix'd
“When night comes I shall get a little rest." By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
Some few groans more, death comes, and there No such inordinate difference and vast

Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond ; Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, No man on earth is holy call’d: they best And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Where decent reverence well had kept her Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield mute,

To him of his own works the praise, his due.

Their groans

an end.

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