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Hung soft in their heads.
No life but, at moments,
The mountain-bee's hum.
-I come, O ye mountains!
Ye pine-woods, I come!

Forgive me forgive me!
Ah, Marguerite, fain

Would these arms reach to clasp thee!
But see! 'tis in vain.

In the void air, towards thee,
My stretch'd arms are cast;
But a sea rolls between us—
Our different past!

To the lips, ah! of others
Those lips have been prest,

And others, ere I was,

Were strain'd to that breast;

Far, far from each other

Our spirits have grown ;

And what heart knows another?
Ah! who knows his own ?

Blow, ye winds! lift me with

I come to the wild.

Fold closely, O Nature!

Thine arms round thy child.


To thee only God granted
A heart ever new-
To all always open,

To all always true.

Ah! calm me, restore me;
And dry up my tears
On thy high mountain-platforms,
Where morn first appears;

Where the white mists, for ever, Are spread and upfurl'd

In the stir of the forces

Whence issued the world.


My horse's feet beside the lake,

Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay,
Sent echoes through the night to wake
Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay.

The poplar avenue was pass'd,

And the roof'd bridge that spans the stream;
Up the steep street I hurried fast,
Led by thy taper's starlike beam.

I came! I saw thee rise !-the blood
Pour'd flushing to thy languid cheek.
Lock'd in each other's arms we stood,
In tears, with hearts too full to speak.

Days flew ;-ah, soon I could discern
A trouble in thine alter'd air!

Thy hand lay languidly in mine,

Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare.

I blame thee not!-this heart, I know
To be long loved was never framed ;
For something in its depths doth glow
Too strange, too restless, too untamed.

And women—things that live and move
Mined by the fever of the soul—
They seek to find in those they love
Stern strength, and promise of control.

They ask not kindness, gentle ways—
These they themselves have tried and known;
They ask a soul which never sways
With the blind gusts that shake their own.

I too have felt the load I bore
In a too strong emotion's sway;
I too have wish'd, no woman more,
This starting, feverish heart away.

I too have long'd for trenchant force,
And will like a dividing spear;

Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course,
Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear.

But in the world I learnt, what there
Thou too wilt surely one day prove,
That will, that energy, though rare,
Are yet far, far less rare than love.

Go, then !-till time and fate impress
This truth on thee, be mine no more!
They will!-for thou, I feel, not less
Than I, wast destined to this lore.

We school our manners, act our parts-
But He, who sees us through and through,
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true.

And though we wear out life, alas!
Distracted as a homeless wind,
In beating where we must not pass,
In seeking what we shall not find;

Yet we shall one day gain, life past,
Clear prospect o'er our being's whole;
Shall see ourselves, and learn at last
Our true affinities of soul.

We shall not then deny a course
To every thought the mass ignore ;
We shall not then call hardness force,
Nor lightness wisdom any more.

Then, in the eternal Father's smile,

Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare
To seem as free from pride and guile,
As good, as generous, as they are.

Then we shall know our friends!—though much
Will have been lost-the help in strife,
The thousand sweet, still joys of such
As hand in hand face earthly life—

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