By the lakes that thus outspread
         Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
         Their sad waters, sad and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily,—

         By the mountains—near the river
         Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
         By the grey woods,—by the swamp
         Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
         By the dismal tarns and pools
                 Where dwell the Ghouls,—
         By each spot the most unholy—
         In each nook most melancholy,—
         There the traveller meets aghast
         Sheeted Memories of the Past—
         Shrouded forms that start and sigh
         As they pass the wanderer by—
         White-robed forms of friends long given,
         In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion
         ’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
         For the spirit that walks in shadow
         ’Tis—oh ’tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it,
         May not—dare not openly view it;
         Never its mysteries are exposed
         To the weak human eye unclosed;
         So wills its King, who hath forbid
         The uplifting of the fringèd lid;
         And thus the sad Soul that here passes
         Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely,
         Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
         On a black throne reigns upright,
         I have wandered home but newly
         From this ultimate dim Thule. 1844. HYMN


     At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—
     Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! In joy and woe—in good and ill—
     Mother of God, be with me still! When the Hours flew brightly by
     And not a cloud obscured the sky,
     My soul, lest it should truant be,
     Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
     Now, when storms of Fate o’ercast
     Darkly my Present and my Past,
     Let my Future radiant shine
     With sweet hopes of thee and thine! 1835. TO ZANTE


     Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
         Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take
     How many memories of what radiant hours
         At sight of thee and thine at once awake! How many scenes of what departed bliss! How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! How many visions of a maiden that is
         No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes! No _more!_ alas, that magical sad sound
         Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_—
     Thy memory _no more! _Accursed ground
         Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
     O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! “Isola d’oro! Fior di Levante!”

      1837. SCENES FROM “POLITIAN”

      AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. I.
              Rome.—A Hall in a Palace  Alessandra and Castiglione. Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione. Castiglione. Sad!—not I.
  Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome! A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy! Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
  Thy happiness!—what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply? Cas. Did I sign? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
  A silly—a most silly fashion I have
  When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (sighing.) Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
  Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
  The constitution as late hours and wine. Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep
  sorrow—
  Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend. Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop
  Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born—
  Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir
  And Alessandra’s husband. Cas. I will drop them. Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more
  To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
  For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
  Upon appearances. Cas. I’ll see to it. Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
  To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
  In dignity. Cas. Much, much, oh! much I want
    In proper dignity. Aless. (haughtily)  Thou mockest me, sir! Cas. (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage! Aless. Heard I aright? I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage! Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? he’s not well! What ails thee, sir? Cas. (startling.) Cousin! fair cousin!—madam! I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke! Enter Di Broglio. Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the
  matter? (observing Alessandra)
  I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected
  Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester! We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit
  To the imperial city. Aless. What! Politian
  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? Di Brog. The same, my love. We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
  In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
  But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
  Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
  And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding. Aless. I have heard much of this Politian. Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not? And little given to thinking. Di Brog. Far from it, love. No branch, they say, of all philosophy
  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learned as few are learned. Aless. ’Tis very strange! I have known men have seen Politian
  And sought his company. They speak of him
  As of one who entered madly into life,
  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. Cas. Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
  And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer and a man shut out
  From common passions. Di Brog. Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
  Politian was a melancholy man? (exeunt.) II
    ROME. A Lady’s apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a
  hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly
  upon a chair. Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou? Jac. [Jacinta] (pertly.) Yes, Ma’am, I’m here. Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. Sit down!—Let not my presence trouble you—
  Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble. Jac. (aside.) ’Tis time. (Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her
  elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read. ) Lal.