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SYLVIA.

(In the early manner.)

Down beside a hillock green,

In sunlit rushes' silvery sheen,

Sylvia fair did sit,

Sylvia the fair!

And whispering zephyrs past her flit,

The while she combs her glistening hair,

And whisper amorous tales

Of life within the dales.

But Coridon did sport with love,

And in the scented brake

The leaves with sighs did shake;

But she he loved with all above, Viewing in fright the coming night, With feet now dry took sudden flight,

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And in that silvery sheen,

By Coridon (the simple shepherd swain !) Was never seen again.

Ay me! my love, though pure as light

Sleeping on beds of snow,

With blushing all a-glow,

Has frighted into seemly shame

Her (alas!) whose very name

To brightness chang'd the night,

And eased my troubled sprite."

Ah! fond and fool, (quoth Love,) nor hot

nor cold,

None ever yet lost love though overbold.

C

AN INVITATION.

COME to the river-bank with me;

For there are plumèd ferns of crescent green, And in the wine-dark pools are seen

The crimson-spotted trout.

Hush! hush! move through the brake most

silently,

Vex with no loud unhallow'd shout

The holy secrecy of this sweet glade,

And you shall see

The dipper rush with sudden flash, and fade Into the woodland screen;

Nor shall you by your presence make afraid The kingfisher, who looks down dreamily At his own shadow gorgeously array'd.

HAMPSTEAD, 1869.

AGAINST the purple evening-light most dark

The old church tower stood,

Steep'd in a silence that was eloquent,

Within a gold irradiated flood,

The sun's o'erflowing glory!

Nor could I mark

Or life or moving breath

As Night with owl-like rush, embracing, bent

Across the sullen heath,.

Save when the leaves, dying and pale and hoary,

Stirr'd 'twixt each quiet mound

With rustling sound.

But with the night there came

One who did break my numbèd heart to tears,

Raising my hopes, dispelling all my fears,

Who told, beneath the stars, the thrilling story

Of him whose name unites in Love's strong bands The loveliest of all poetic lands,

Green-wreathed England, sunny Italy!

Whose memory, like the Delphic flame,
'Twixt all blue skies and fair ethereal seas,

But more upon this heath and mid these trees,
Burneth eternally.

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