"And had he not long read Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek Colouring all crimson at his lightest look?"

"And here at length is somewhat of revenge: For man's most golden dreams of pride and power Are vain as any woman-dreams of love; Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart, And the grave closes over those whose hopes Have lain there long before."

"Deceit is this world's passport: who would dare, However pure the breast, to lay it bare?"

"Why should I love? flinging down pearl and gem To those who scorn, at least care not for them: Why should I hate? as blades in scabbards melt, I have no power to make my hatred felt;"

"How much we give to other hearts our tone, And judge of others' feelings by our own!"

"Her rival—hers—language has not a word By woman's ear so utterly abhorr'd. No marvel, for it robs her only part Of sweet dominion—empire o'er the heart."

"She sleeps!—so sleeps the wretch beside the stake: She sleeps!—how dreadful from such sleep to wake!"

"Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour, When grief and consciousness assert their power; When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again;"

"There are remembrances that will not vanish,— Thoughts of the past we would but cannot banish: As if to show how impotent mere will, We loathe the pang, and yet must suffer still: For who is there can say they will forget? —It is a power no science teaches yet."

"Alas! alas! how plague-spot like will sin Spread over the wrung heart it enters in!"

"The sudden start, the rapid step once more,— As if it would annihilate the time:— But who may paint the solitude of crime?"

"A story from the stars; or rather one Of starry fable from the olden time, When young Imagination was as fresh As the fair world it peopled with itself."

"And all o'er heaven is that clear blue The stars so love to wander through. They're rising from the silent deep, Like bright eyes opening after sleep."

"The bard, the warrior, and the sage, What win they but one lying page, Where deeds and words, at hazard thrown, May be or may not be their own?"

"But o'er CYRENE'S cheek the rose, Like moon-touch'd water, ebbs and flows; And eyes that droop like Summer flowers Told they could change with shine and showers."

"Alas! vows are his after sign!— We prop the tree in its decline— The ghosts that haunt a parting hour, With all of grief, and nought of power; A chain half sunder'd in the making,— The plighted vow's already breaking."

"Sketches indeed, from that most passionate page, A woman's heart, of feelings, thoughts, that make The atmosphere in which her spirit moves;"

"When years have past Over the fallen arch, the ruin'd hall, It seems but course of time, the one great doom, Whose influence is alike upon us all;"

"—I never saw more perfect loveliness. It ask'd, it had no aid from dress: her robe Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds As suit a statue: neck and arms were bare; The black hair was unbound, and like a veil Hung even to her feet; she held a lute, And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words, But scarcely audible, as if she thought Rather than spoke:—the night, the solitude, Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry."

"'Tis this which makes The best assurance of our promised heaven: This triumph intellect has over death— Our words yet live on others' lips; our thoughts Actuate others. Can that man be dead Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind?"

"I am a woman:—tell me not of fame."

"I did not choose my gift:—too soon my heart, Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour Than time had reach'd: and as my years pass'd on, Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts, And thoughts found words, the passionate words of song, And all to me was poetry."

"I speak of my own feelings—I can judge Of others but by outward show, and that Is falser than the actor's studied part. We dress our words and looks in borrow'd robes: The mind is as the face—for who goes forth In public walks without a veil at least?"

"I am vain—praise is opium, and the lip Cannot resist the fascinating draught, Though knowing its excitement is a fraud— Delirious—a mockery of fame."

"I may be kind, And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still; For gratitude is not companionship.—"

"How noble and ennobling!—but within How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd With base alloy; how Disappointment tracks The steps of Hope; how Envy dogs success; How every victor's crown is lined with thorns, And worn mid scoffs!"

"-- social life is fill'd With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, When the imagination is dethroned, Is turned to weariness."

"Methinks we must have known some former state More glorious than our present, and the heart Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left By past magnificence; and hence we pine With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes With bitter tears for their own vanity."

"Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past Lingering within him, with a keener sense Than is upon the thoughts of common men Of what has been, that fills the actual world With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, That were and are not; and the fairer they, The more their contrast with existing things, The more his power, the greater is his grief."

"I held that Love Which chooseth from a thousand only one, To be the object of that tenderness Natural to every heart; which can resign Its own best happiness for one dear sake; Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,— For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,— And doth prefer another to itself."

"Alas! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts."

"There was a sculptured form; the feet were placed Upon a finely-carved rose wreath; the arms Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars EULALIA leant beside; 'twas hard to say Which was the actual marble: when she spoke, You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound; But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still; And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths."

"Peace to the weary and the beating heart, That fed upon itself!"

"IT is in this we differ; I would seek To blend my very being into thine— I'm even jealous of thy memory: I wish our childhood had been pass'd together."

"the hollow voice Of that old crone, the only living sound; Her face, on which mortality has writ Its closing, with the wan and bony hand, Raised like a spectre's—and yourself the while, Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear, Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath Suppress'd for very earnestness."

"Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee."

"I can pass days Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,— The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,— Each tree a natural harp,— each different leaf A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving."

"A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep."

"Blue hyacinths! Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes With tears too soft for such a scene as this."

"I am spectator, not partaker, here. To me it seems more like a pageant made To represent mirth, than the mirth itself."

"The early graced of Grecian song, The fragrant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true."

"Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more."

"Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere— And does but waste away the mind On which it preys:—in vain Would they in whom its poison lurks A worthier state attain."

"Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face. And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace."

"How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring; But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—"

"How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!"

"The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, Or who ever read in the depths of their own? — How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!"