V.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair;
She wears a coronal of flowers faded

Upon her forehead, and a face of care ;—
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,-and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

HYMN TO THE SUN.

GIVER of glowing light! Though but a god of other days,

The kings and sages

Of wiser ages

Still live and gladden in thy genial rays!

King of the tuneful lyre,
Still poets' hymns to thee belong;

Though lips are cold

Whereon of old

Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song!

Lord of the dreadful bow,

None triumph now for Python's death;

But thou dost save

From hungry grave

The life that hangs upon a summer breath.

Father of rosy day,

No more thy clouds of incense rise;

But waking flow'rs,

At morning hours,

Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

God of the Delphic fane,

No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; But they will leave

On winds at eve,

A solemn echo to the end of time.

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

I.

LADY, wouldst thou heiress be

To Winter's cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free,

Thou dost still lock up thy heart ;— Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, But in the whiteness of thy brow?

II.

Scorn and cold neglect are made
For winter gloom and winter wind,
But thou wilt wrong the summer air,
Breathing it to words unkind,—
Breath which only should belong
To love, to sunlight, and to song!

III.

When the little buds unclose,

Red, and white, and pied, and blue,

And that virgin flow'r, the rose,

Opes her heart to hold the dew,

Wilt thou lock thy bosom up

With no jewel in its cup?

IV.

Let not cold December sit

Thus in Love's peculiar throne:
Brooklets are not prison'd now,
But crystal frosts are all agone,
And that which hangs upon the

spray,

It is no snow, but flow'r of May!