"It is a fearful thing to live, yet be That which is scarcely life — the spirit fled — Death at the heart — our nobler self is dead — The reasoning and responsible, while we Live, like the birds around, unconsciously. God ! in thy mercy keep us from such doom, Let not our mind precede us to our tomb !"

"Hamooda holds a feast to-night — Fill ye the lamps with fragrant light ; Burn, in the twilight's dewy time, The mastic, rosemary, and thyme; And scatter round the festal chamber Oils from the rose, the musk, the amber."

"Men gathered fast upon the sands With eager aid—in vain— What is might of human hands To struggle with the main?"

"How still it is ! the bee — the bird — Float by on noiseless wing. There sounds no step — there comes no word, There seems no living thing. But still upon the soft west wind These bells come sweeping by, Leaving familiar thoughts behind, Familiar, and yet high."

"There is a lovely English sound Upon the English air, It comes when else had silence found Its quiet empire there."

"Years have grown into centuries grey, The king and his people, where are they? Where are the temples of carved stone? Look in the dust—to dust they are gone. Five or six pillars alone remain Of the thousands that crowded that marble plain. The palm-tree that stood by that building of yore Standeth as green as it did before. But the dust is heaped o’er the works of men— And so it hath been, and will be again."

"Thy angel-nature was not made For struggle or for care; Thou wert too gentle and too good For Heaven long to spare. Thou wert but sent a little while To soothe and to sustain; The angels missed thee from their band And asked for thee again: But not till thou hadst given birth To many a holy thought on earth."

"Life is a fable, with its lesson last ; Genius, too, has its fable and its moral: Of all the trees that down their shadows cast, Choose you a wreath from any but the laurel."

"What makes the poet? — Nothing but to feel More keenly than the common sense of feeling; To have the soul attuned to the appeal Of the dim music through all nature stealing."

"Methinks a pleasant lesson Is given by the scene— That age alike and childhood Delight in what has been. They will make, those happy children, The old man’s heart their own— There never was a pleasure Could be enjoyed alone."

"Oh ! there are moments when the full heart, turning From this life, insufficient, vexed, and drear, Looks to the skies with an impatient yearning, And asks the morning for another sphere."

"Hope’s fairy arches cross human life’s dark river; Frail the support—while over it there hastens All the sweet beliefs that make the morning fair."

"The day is yet rosy with wakening from sleep, The stars have one moment gone down in the deep, The flowers have not opened that hide in the grass, And the hares leave their print in the dew as they pass."

"’Tis strange how often early years Will unexpected rise, And bring back soft and childlike tears To cold and world-worn eyes. Soft voices come upon the wind, Old songs and early prayers, And feel how much of good and kind Our weary life still spares."

"During a considerable part of the year, the Choor is hoary with snow; and when moonlight falls upon the scene, an effect is produced as if floods of molten silver were poured over the surface. Moonlight in these regions assumes a novel charm. The rugged peaks, stern and chilling as they are, lose their awful character, and become brilliant as polished pearl; the trees, covered with icicles, seem formed of some rich spar; and the face of nature becoming wholly changed, presents the features of a world calm and tranquil, but still and deathlike. (Letitia Landon may have her friend Emma Roberts to thank for details of this description)"

"But here no tumult ever past, The wild wind brought no sound, Saving the mighty music cast By the dark pine-trees round; And Nature had one hour’s repose Amid the silence of the snows."

"A thousand nameless years went by, As silent as their birth; The clouds that wandered o’er the sky Beheld no change on earth: With one unbroken chronicle, A thousand years left nought to tell."

"On the wind a murmur, Seems to float along, Soft as is the music Of remembered song. Bringing at the moment All that dwelt apart In the lone recesses Of the haunted heart. So upon her twilight wings Memory beareth graceful things, From the tales Arabian, From the old Arabian Nights."

"It is the past that maketh the ideal, Kindling the future with its onward ray, And o’er a world that else would be too real, Flinging the glory of the moral day."

"Oh sun, how glad thy rays are shed; How canst thou glory o’er the dead? Ah, folly this of human pride, What are the dead to one like thee, Whose mirror is the mighty tide, Where time flows to eternity? A single race, a single age, What are they in thy pilgrimage?"

"The haughty eye closes, the white teeth are set, And the dew-damps of pain on the wrung brow are wet: The slight frame is writhing—she sinks to the ground; She yields to no struggle, she utters no sound— The small hands are clenched—they relax—it is past, And her aunt kneels beside her—kneels weeping at last."

"Proud, beautiful, fierce; while she gazes, the tone Of those high murky features grows almost her own; And the blood of her race rushes dark to her brow, The spirit of heroes has entered her now."

"She bounds o’er the soft grass, half woman half child, As gay as her antelope, almost as wild. The bloom of her cheek is like that on her years; She has never known pain, she has never known tears, And thought has no grief, and no fear to impart; The shadow of Eden is yet on her heart."

"Beside is a lake covered over with isles, As the face of a beauty is varied with smiles: Some small, just a nest for the heron that springs From the long grass, and flashes the light from its wings; Some bearing one palm-tree, the stately and fair, Alone like a column aloft in the air; While others have shrubs and sweet plants that extend Their boughs to the stream o’er whose mirror they bend. . . . But the isle in the midst was the fairest of all . . . ."

"There is famine on earth—there is plague in the air, And all for a woman whose face is too fair. There was silence like that from the tomb, for no sound Was heard from the chieftains who darkened around, When the voice of a woman arose in reply, ‘The daughters of Rajahstan know how to die.’"

"But weep for those the human things, so lovely and so young, The panting hearts which still to life so passionately clung; Some bound to this dear earth by hope, and some by love’s strong thrall, And yet dishonour's high disdain was paramount with all."

"One word there came from her white lips, one word, she spoke no more; But that word was for life and death, the young queen named—the Jojr."

"And still more hopeless than when last she on their camp looked down, The foeman’s gathered numbers close round the devoted town: And daily in that fatal trench her chosen soldiers fall, And spread themselves, a rampart vain, around that ruined wall. Her eyes upon her city turn—alas! what can they meet, But famine, and despair, and death, in every lonely street?"

"How fragrant to these dewy hours, The white magnolia lifts its urn The very Araby of flowers, Wherein all precious odours burn."

"Ah, only those who rarely know Kind words, can tell how sweet they seem. Great God, that there are those below To whom such words are like a dream."

"The heart which on itself hath turned, Worn out with feelings—slighted—spurned— Till scarce one throb remained to show What warm emotions slept below, Never to be renewed again, And known but by remembered pain."

"For things it were so hard to say Are murmured easily in song— It is for music to impart The secrets of the burthened heart."

"Such was the colour—when her cheek Spoke what the lip might never speak. The crimson flush which could confess All that we hoped—but dared not guess. That blush which through the world is known To love, and to the rose alone—"

"Ah! never is that cherished face Banished from its accustomed place— It shines upon my weariest night It leads me on in thickest fight: All that seems most opposed to be Is yet associate with thee— Together life and thee depart, Dream—idol—treasure of my heart."

"Mine be that consciousness of life Which has its energies from strife, Which lives its utmost, knows its power, Claims from the mind its utmost dower—"

"What though our passing day but be A bubble on eternity; Small though the circle is, yet still ’Tis ours to colour at our will."

"And the cold justice still awarded By time, which makes all lots the same. Slayer or slain, it matters not, We struggle, perish, are forgot!"

"Of all soils, a literary one is the soonest exhausted, and a change of subjects is as much needed as a change of crops."

"Poetry is youth's language; and the scroll Whereon is poured the music of its soul, Is like some long-loved friend, whose image seems To bring back memory's deepest, dearest dreams."

"He does not know his children’s face, His wife might pass him by, He is so altered—did they meet, With an unconscious eye : He has been many years at sea, He’s worn with wind and wave : He asks a little breathing space, Between it and his grave:"

"Methinks it is a glorious thing, To sail upon the deep ; A thousand sailors under you, Their watch and ward to keep :"

"Oh, build tombs for the dead, they're mightier there Than in their living palaces !"

"It is a glorious thing for man to war With time, by some great work. Wherefore was skill, And energy, and industry, bestowed, If that he use them not ?"

"The grave has its vengeance—the dead have their power In the terrible silence of midnight’s dark hour, When each shade is a spectre—and winds have a tone, To the ear of the innocent sleeper unknown ; When the visions ascend from the depths of the tomb, And strange shadows flit thro’ the spectral room."

"Rage and revenge, and worldly care, Have all been calmed and purified, By memory of the childish prayer I whispered at my mother's side."

"Whene'er a person is a poet, No matter what the pang may be; Does not at once the public know it ? Witness each newspaper we see."

"Never more, when the day is o’er, Will the lonely vespers sound ; No bells are ringing—no monks are singing, When the moonlight falls around."

"All things are signs in nature, still there are Subtle analogies we dimly trace. Perhaps our moral world has but its day, Of which the great sun is the glorious type; And intellect will run its course, and set. If so, we touch on the extremest verge Of our horizon ; and our arts, our power, Our conquests o’er the many realms of mind. Wealth, painting, sciences, and poetry Are but that rich magnificence of hues Which heralds in the closing of our day."

"Dead !—it was like a thunderbolt To hear that he was dead ; Though for long weeks the words of fear Came from his dying bed ; Yet hope denied, and would deny We did not think that he could die."

"I give it up in pure despair; But well the muse may turn refractory, When all her inspiration is— A Chinese Town, and an English Factory."