O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain, Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy racked heart and brain Afford no balm? Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and seared eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister’s shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change. Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia,-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again--thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain! _URANIA._ She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, While we for hopeless passion die; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are. Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men; But light the serious visage grew grew-- She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labored, puny passion-fits,-- Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she! Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, One of some worthier race than ours! One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love. His eyes be like the starry lights, His voice like sounds of summer nights; In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe! And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend, and weep for glee, And cry, _Long, long I’ve looked for thee_. Then will she weep: with smiles, till then, Coldly she mocks the sons of men; Till then, her lovely eyes maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. _EUPHROSYNE._ I must not say that she was true, Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there. Truth--what is truth? Two bleeding hearts, Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear, Their lot was but to weep and moan; Ah! let them keep their faith sincere, For neither could subsist alone. But souls whom some benignant breath Hath charmed at birth from gloom and care,-- These ask no love, these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are.