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There came to him many a maiden,

Whose eyes had forgot to shine ; And widows, with grief o’erladen, For a draught of his sleepy wine.

Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine!

The scholar left all his learning,

The poet his fancied woes ;
And the beauty her bloom returning,
Like life to the fading rose.

Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine!

All came to the royal old fellow,

Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine ;
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in death's black wine.

Hurrah! hurrah !
Hurrah ! for the coal-black wine!

DIRGE.

Let the moaning music die,
Let the hope-deceived fly,
Turn’d by strong neglect to pain!
Let the mind desert the brain,
Leaving all to dark decay,
Like a lump of idle clay!

They are gone who loved and-died,
The once lover and his bride;
Therefore we our sorrow weave
Into songs ;- yet wherefore grieve?
Though they sleep an endless sleep,
Why should we despair and weep?
They are gone together :
They are safe from wind and weather,
Lightning and the drowning rain,
And the hell of earthly pain.
They are dead ;-or if they live,
There is One who can forgive,
Though a thousand errors ran
Through the fond, false heart of man,

Let the moaning music perish!
Wherefore should we strive to cherish
Sorrow, like the desert rain ?
Though we weep, we weep in vain!
They are gone together,

Haply to the summer shores,
Where the bright and cloudless weather

Shineth, and for ever pours
Music with the flooding light,

And the night doth chase the day,
And the morn doth chase the night,

Like a starry fawn away!

They are gone-where pleasure reigns
Sinless on the golden plains,
Far above the scathing thunder,

Far above the storms and jars
Of earth, and live delighted under

The bright silence of the stars!
Therefore let the music die,-
Thoughtless hope and sorrow fly :
They are happy,-happier than
We who, in the mask of man,
Pour our unavailing tears
Over Beauty's number'd years!

SERENADE.

AWAKE !-the starry midnight hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight ;
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower,
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight !

Awake! awake!
Look forth, my love, for love's sweet sake!

Awake !-soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead, and thorny brake; Then, sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break!

Awake! awake!

Awake!—within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee ;
Ah, come and shew the starry hour
What wealth of love thou hidest from me!

Awake! awake!
Shew all thy love, for love's sweet sake!

Awake!-ne'er heed, though listening night

Steal music from thy silver voice;
Uncloud thy beauty rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!

Awake! awake!
She comes, at last, for love's sweet sake!

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We toil—through pain and wrong;

We fight, and fly;
We love, we lose--and then, ere long,

Stone-dead we lie.
O life! is all thy song
“ Endure and—die ?”

TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD.

Poor singer ! hath the fowler's gun,

Or the sharp winter done thee harm? We'll lay thee gently in the sun,

And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm; Perhaps some human kindness still May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,

And save thee from the winter wild, Till summer fall on field and fell,

And thou shalt be our feather'd child ; And tell us all thy pain and wrong, When thou canst speak again in song.

Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,

We'll use thee kindly now;
And sure there's in a friendly word

An accent even thou shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach
Disdaineth all peculiar speech :

'Tis common to the bird and brute,

To fallen man, to angel bright; And sweeter 'tis than lonely lute

Heard in the air at night; Divine and universal tongue, Whether by bird or spirit sung!

But, hark ! is that a sound we hear

Come chirping from its throat,
Faint, short—but weak—and very clear,

And like a little grateful note ?
Another? ha! look where it lies,–
It shivers,-gasps,-is still,-it dies !

'Tis dead ! 'tis dead! and all our care

Is useless. Now, in vain
The mother's woe doth pierce the air,

Calling her nestling bird again!
All's vain; the singer's heart is cold,

AN INVOCATION TO BIRDS.

COME, all ye feathery people of mid air,
Who sleep ʼmidst rocks, or on the mountain summits
Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build
Your homes amidst green leaves by grottos cool;
And ye, who on the flat sands hoard your eggs
For suns to ripen, come! O phenix rare !
If death hath spared, or philosophic search
Permit thee still to own thy haunted nest,
Perfect Arabian,- lonely nightingale !
Dusk creature, who art silent all day long,
But when pale eve unseals thy clear throat, loosest
Thy twilight music on the dreaming boughs,
Until they waken ; and thou, cuckoo bird,
Who art the ghost of sound, having no shape
Material, but dost wander far and near,
Like untouch'd echo whom the woods deny
Sight of her love, come all to my slow charm!
Come thou, sky-climbing bird, wakener of morn,
Who springest like a thought unto the sun,
And from his golden floods dost gather wealth
(Epithalamium and Pindarique song),
And with it enrich our ears ; come all to me,
Beneath the chamber where my lady lies,
And, in your several musics, whisper-Love!

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