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"The balmy moon of blessed Israel

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell

With spires of silver shine.”

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves

The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves

Of sound on roof and floor

Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and tied

To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died

To save her father's vow;

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,

A maiden pure; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light,

With timbrel and with song.

My words leapt forth : “Heaven heads the count of crimes

With that wild oath.” She render'd answer ligh: " Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times

I would be born and die.

Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root

Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit

Changed, I was ripe for death.

“My God, my land, my father these did move

Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love

Down to a silent grave.

“And I went mourning, · No fair Hebrew boy

Shall smile away my maiden blaine aniong The Hebrew mothers' - emptied of all joy,

Leaving the dance and song,

“ Leaving the olive-gardens far below,

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow

Beneath the battled tower.

“ The light white cloud swam over us.

Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den ; We saw the large white stars rise one by one,

Or, from the darken'd glen,

“ Saw God divide the night with flying flame,

And thunder on the everlasting hills.
I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became

A solemn scorn of ills.

“ When the next moon was rolld into the sky,

Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die

For God and for my sire !

" It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,

That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,

Sweetens the spirit still.

“ Moreover it is written that my race

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth.” Here her face

Glow'd, as I look'd at her.


She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood :

Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood,

Toward the morning-star.

Losing her carol I stood pensively,

As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly,

And the old year is dead.

“Alas! alas !” a low voice, full of care,

Murmur'd beside me: “Turn and look on me: I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair,

If what I was I be.

“ Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor!

O me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor

Do hunt me, day and night.”

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust :

To whom the Egyptian: “O, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust

The dagger thro' her side.”

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams,

Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams

Ruled in the eastern sky.

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark,

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc,

A light of ancient France;

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,

Who kneeling, with one arın about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labors longer from the deep

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

Compass’d, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again!

But no two dreams are like.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,

Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest

By sighs or groans or tears ;

Because all words, tho' cull’d with choicest art,

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart

Faints, faded by its heat.


O SWEET pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower ?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,

Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile before you speak,
That dimples your transparent cheek,

Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound,

Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her sprcadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night.

2. You love, remaining peacefully,

To hear the murmur of the strife,

But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea,

Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway

Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lulld echoes of laborious day

Come to you, gleams of mellow light
Float by you on the verge of nigbt.

3. What can it matter, Margaret,

What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet,

Sang looking thro' his prison-bars?

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell

The last wild thought of Chatelet,

Just ere the falling axe did part
The burning brain from the true heart,

Even in her sight he loved so well ?

4. A fairy shield your Genius made

And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,

Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes,

You are not less divine, But more human in your moods,

Than your twin-sister, Adeline.
Your hair is darker, and your eyes

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue,
And less aërially blue,

But ever trembling thro' the dew
Of dainty-woful sympathies.

O sweet pale Margaret.

O rare pale Margaret,
Come down, come down, and hear me speak:

up the ringlets on your cheek:

The sun is just about to set,
The arching limes are tall and shady,

And faint, rainy lights are seen,

Moving in the leafy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,

Where all day long you sit between

Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn,

Look out below your bower-eaves,
Look down, and let your


dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.

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