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From that grey stone where first we met) There, now who knows the dead feel nought? Should be my grave; for he who yet

Is my soul's soul, once said: ""Twere sweet 'Mid stars and lightnings to abide,

And winds and lulling snows, that beat
With their soft flakes the mountain wide,
When weary meteor lamps repose,

And languid storms their pinions close:
And all things strong and bright and pure,
And ever during, aye endure:

Who knows, if one were buried there,
But these things might our spirits make,
Amid the all-surrounding air,

Their own eternity partake?”

Then 'twas a wild and playful saying

At which I laughed, or seemed to laugh; They were his words: now heed my praying, And let them be my epitaph.

Thy memory for a term may be

My monument. Wilt remember me?
I know thou wilt, and canst forgive
Whilst in this erring world to live
My soul disdained not, that I thought
Its lying forms were worthy aught
And much less thee.

Helen.

Oh speak not so,

But come to me and pour thy woe
Into this heart, full though it be,
Aye overflowing with its own;
I thought that grief had severed me
From all beside who weep and groan;
Its likeness upon earth to be,

Its express image; but thou art

More wretched. Sweet! we will not part
Henceforth, if death be not division;

If so, the dead feel no contrition.

But wilt thou hear since last we parted

All that has left me broken hearted?

Ros. Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn Of their thin beams by that delusive morn

Which sinks again in darkness, like the light

Of early love, soon lost in total night.

Helen.

Alas! Italian winds are mild,

But my bosom is cold-wintry cold

When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves,

Soft music, my poor brain is wild,

And I am weak like a nursling child,

Though my soul with grief is grey and old.

Ros. Weep not at thine own words, tho' they must make What is thy tale?

Me weep.

Helen.

I fear 'twill shake

Thy gentle heart with tears.

Thou well

Rememberest when we met no more,

And, though I dwelt with Lionel,

That friendless caution pierced me sore
With grief; a wound my spirit bore
Indignantly, but when he died

With him lay dead both hope and pride.

Alas! all hope is buried now.

But then men dreamed the aged earth

Was labouring in that mighty birth,

Which many a poet and a sage
Has aye foreseen-the happy age
When truth and love shall dwell below
Among the works and ways of men;
Which on this world not power but will
Even now is wanting to fulfil.

Among mankind what theuce befel

Of strife, how vain, is known too well;
When liberty's dear pæan fell

'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel,

Though of great wealth and lineage high,
Yet through those dungeon walls there came
Thy thrilling light, O liberty!

And as the meteor's midnight flame
Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth
Flashed on his visionary youth,
And filled him, not with love, but faith,
And hope, and courage mute in death;
For love and life in him were twins,
Born at one birth: in every other
First life then love its course begins,
Though they be children of one mother;
And so through this dark world they fleet
Divided, till in death they meet:

But he loved all things ever. Then

He past amid the strife of men,

And stood at the throne of armed power

Pleading for a world of woe:

Secure as one on a rock-built tower

O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro.
'Mid the passions wild of human kind
He stood, like a spirit calming them;
For, it was said, his words could bind

Like music the lulled crowd, and stem
That torrent of unquiet dream,
Which mortals truth and reason deem,
But is revenge and fear and pride.
Joyous he was; and hope and peace
On all who heard him did abide,
Raining like dew from his sweet talk,
As where the evening star may walk
Along the brink of the gloomy seas,
Liquid mists of splendour quiver.
His very gestures touched to tears
The unpersuaded tyrant, never
So moved before: his presence stung
The torturers with their victim's pain,
And none knew how; and through their ears
The subtle witchcraft of his tongue
Unlocked the hearts of those who keep
Gold, the world's bond of slavery.
Men wondered, and some sneered to see
One sow what he could never reap:
For he is rich, they said, and young,

And might drink from the depths of luxury.
If he seeks fame, fame never crowned
The champion of a trampled creed:
If he seeks power, power is enthroned
'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed
Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil,
Those who would sit near power must toil;

And such, there sitting, all may see.
What seeks he? All that others seek
He casts away, like a vile weed
Which the sea casts unreturningly.

That poor and hungry men should break

The laws which wreak them toil and scorn,

To a sleep more deep and so more sweet
Than a baby's rocked on its nurse's knee,
I lived a living pulse then beat

Beneath my heart that awakened me.
What was this pulse so warm and free?
Alas! I knew it could not be

My own dull blood: 'twas like a thought
Of liquid love, that spread and wrought
Under my bosom and in my brain,

And crept with the blood through every vein;
And hour by hour, day after day,
The wonder could not charm away,
But laid in sleep, my wakeful pain,
Until I knew it was a child,

And then I wept. For long, long years
These frozen eyes had shed no tears:
But now-'twas the season fair and mild
When April has wept itself to May;
I sate through the sweet sunny day
By my window bowered round with leaves,
And down my cheeks the quick tears ran
Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves,
When warm spring showers are passing o'er:
O Helen, none can ever tell

The joy it was to weep once more!

I wept to think how hard it were
To kill my babe, and take from it
The sense of light, and the warm air,
And my own fond and tender care,
And love, and smiles; ere I knew yet
That these for it might, as for me,
Be the masks of a grinning mockery.
And haply, I would dream, 'twere

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