O Desolation, wild, and gaunt, and grim! O hopeless absence of all glad and bright! O horrid shapes fantastical, what hymn Of mine, alas! can tell such shapes aright Would ye but strike me mad, I should indeed be glad, I now can pass the dark hours but in weeping; And could my soul but freeze, Like the breast of the seas, How rapturous would be my silent sleeping. Thou cold and icy moon, Thou dost not pity me! Six long months hast thou seen My weary soul, each year, Since Earth began, nor wept. Away, thou’rt hateful now! Away, for I am mad! And Earth, detested orb, How long must thou exist? Each throb of thy vast pulse Strikes keenest agony Into this soul of mine. If thou hast loveliness, It ne’er was shown to me. Come, let us die together! Hurry thy steeds, O Time! Bear us into the dark Of that Eternity, Whose shadows are so deep We cannot pierce them yet. Ye icebergs, that have seen My wildest misery, Do ye know sympathy? Then melt ye down in tears, And in a sea of grief Flow round me with sweet sound! They feel not, know not, aught! My misery is full! I must unto my bower— My bower of chillest ice— Would that it were my tomb Ye smile on me in scorn, Ye that do see my grief! Then spreading out her wings, Toward the extremest North She took her liquid way. The moon withdrew, and wept; The stars died out with grief; The icebergs thrilled again Unto their icy hearts. All things were sad for her, Saddened by her wild song. * * * * * SONNET.—ART. BY WM. ALEXANDER. Art! what were mankind destitute of thee? Religion’s handmaid oft do we thee find, As to thy polished car seek’st thou to bind True elegance with sweet utility— Long, wide, extensive is thy magic sway, O’er matter all inanimate and mind, E’en savage man thou teachest to be kind, And charmest his rude soul with thy harmony; Cross seas the ship by thy good guidance goes; Fields arable, rich gardens, sacred grove, Town, temple, feel the influence of thy love; Thy sacred power the mind immortal knows, Nor can thy empire, universal, end Till Nature’s forces all in sweet subjection bend. * * * * * A REPLY TO DWIGHT’S ARTICLE ON MOZART’S DON GIOVANNI.