"The day is past, and the moonbeams weep O'er the many that rest in their last cold sleep; Near to the gashed and the nerveless hand Is the pointless spear and the broken brand; The archer lies like an arrow spent, His shafts all loose and his bow unbent; Many a white plume torn and red, Bright curls rent from the graceful head, Helmet and breast-plate scattered around, Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground; While the crow and the raven flock overhead To feed on the hearts of the helpless dead, Save when scared by the glaring eye Of some wretch in his last death agony."

"Love may be increased with fears, May be fanned with sighs, Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts But without Hope it dies!"

"And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love; Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, Happiness, are but things of which henceforth She'll only know the name?"

"It is a gem which hath the power to show If plighted lovers keep their faith or no : If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring ; If faithless, like those leaves when withering."

"He had a power; in his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that Death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake."

"They met with cold words, and yet colder looks: Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought The other only changed, himself the same."

"But this is as a dream, — the plough has pass'd Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked On the green twilight of the forest-trees. This Oak has no companion ! - - - -"

"Violets! — deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale, — None by the dew of the twilight wet, So sweet as the deep-blue violet!"

"Oh, fame is as the moon above, Whose sun of light and life is love. There is more in the smile of one gentle eye Then the thousand pages of history; Than the loudest plaudits the crowd can raise. Take the gems in glory's coronal, And one smile of beauty is worth them all.—"

"—for earth were too like heaven, If length of life to love were given."

"Love is a pearl of purest hue, But stormy waves are round it; And dearly may a woman rue, The hour that she found it."

"Well may storm be on the sky, And the waters roll on high, When MANMADIN passes by. Earth below and heaven above Well may bend to thee, oh Love!"

"Yet one arrow has a power Lasting till life's latest hour-- Weary day and sleepless night, Lightning gleams of fierce delight, Fragrant and yet poisoned sighs, Agonies and ecstasies; Hopes, like fires amid the gloom, Lighting only to consume!"

"Pillowed on a lotus flower, Gathered in a summer hour, Rides he o'er the mountain wave Which would be a tall ship's grave! At his back his bow is slung, Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,—"

"He sung,—the notes at first were low, Like the whispers of love, or the breathings of woe: The waters were hushed, and the winds were stay'd, As he sang his farewell to his Lesbian maid!"

"What is the light of a poet's name, If it is not his country that hallows his fame? Where may he look for guerdon so fair As the honour and praise that await him there? His name will be lost and his grave forgot, If the tears of his country preserve them not! . . ."

"The lines were fill'd with many a tender thing, All the impassion'd heart's fond communing."

"I would not even have him weep O'er his Italian love's last sleep. Oh, tears are a most worthless token, When hearts they would have soothed are broken."

"I left my home, and I was left A stranger in his land, bereft Of even hope; there was not one Familiar face to look upon.— Their speech was strange."

"He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, His face was bowed on the cold damp ground, He raised his head, his tears were done, The father had prayed o'er his only son!"

"AND the muffled drum rolled on the air, Warriors with stately step were there; On every arm was the black crape bound, Every carbine was turned to the ground: Solemn the sound of their measured tread, As silent and slow they followed the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear, There were white plumes waving over the bier: Helmet and sword were laid on the pall, For it was a soldier's funeral."

"Love, thou hast hopes like summers, short and bright, Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams, Intense delicious throbs!"

"Ah! love is even more fragile than its gifts! A tress of raven hair:--oh, only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows."

"All, lingering, stayed to gaze Upon this Eden of the painter's art, And looking on its loveliness, forgot The crowded world around them!—"

"— a poet's love Is immortality!"

"Hope is love's happiness, but not its life;— How many hearts have nourished a vain flame In silence and in secret, though they knew They fed the scorching fire that would consume them!"

"Oh, all Know love is woman's happiness."

"Thrice hallowed shrine Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside!"

"How I pity those whose childhood has been unhappy! to them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste."

"His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold; But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence, He clenched his hands, and gasped, and one deep sob Of agony burst from him; and he hid His face awhile—his mother's look was there. He could not steel his soul when he recalled The bitterness of her despair. It passed— That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down; That sunbeam shed its glory over one, Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy; The next fell over cold and bloody clay. . . ."

"It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling To know we are regretted."

"How many glorious structures we had raised Upon Hope's sandy basis!"

"Death's a fearful thing when we must count its steps!"

"An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name! Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre, Then like a thought she darted by, And sprang on the burning pile to die!"

"Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square As she he sought still glided there,— Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, And will not know its look is vain! At length he turned,—his silent mood Sought that impassioned solitude, The Eden of young hearts, when first Love in its loneliness is nurst."

"The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest. The bee from the midst of its honey quest, And open the leaves of the lotus lay To welcome the noon of the summer day."

"And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here."

"'Tis something, if in absence we can see The footsteps of the past:—it soothes the heart To breathe the air scented in other years By lips beloved; to wander through the groves Where once we were not lonely,—"

"Delicious tears! the heart's own dew."

"Love is like the glass, That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful."

"I do love violets: They tell the history of woman's love; They open with the earliest breath of spring; Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light; And, if they perish, perish with a sigh Delicious as that life."

"There was a grave just closed. Not one seemed near, To pay the tribute of one long—last tear! How very desolate must that one be, Whose more than grave has not a memory!"

"It must be worth a life of toil and care,— Worth those dark chains the wearied one must bear Who toils up fortune's steep,—all that can wring The worn-out bosom with lone-suffering,— Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, And long-deferred hopes of many years,— To reach again that little quiet spot, So well loved once, and never quite forgot;— To trace again the steps of infancy, And catch their freshness from their memory!"

"How very desolate that breast must be, Whose only joyance is in memory! And what must woman suffer, thus betrayed?— Her heart's most warm and precious feelings made But things wherewith to wound: that heart—so weak, So soft—laid open to the vulture's beak!"

"Then they were silent:—words are little aid To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!"

"It is a night of summer,—and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone,"

"I loved him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves-- Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn: Life had no evil destiny That, with him, I could not have borne!"

"It is most sad to watch the fall Of autumn leaves!--but worst of all It is to watch the flower of spring Faded in its fresh blossoming!"

"There are a thousand fanciful things Linked round the young heart's imaginings. In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower Is gifted then with a spell and a power: A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign, From which the maiden can well divine Passion's whole history."