And to-morrow comes Ash-Wednesday, I will draw upon thy forehead Then an ashen cross, and murmur, Woman, thou art dust--remember! SPRING FESTIVAL. This is the spring-tide's mournful feast, The frantic troops of blooming girls Are rushing hither with flying curls, Moaning they smite their bare white breast, Adonis! Adonis! The night has come. By the torches' gleams They search the forest on every side, That echoes with anguish far and wide, With tears, mad laughter, and sobs and screams, Adonis! Adonis! The mortal youth so strangely fair, Lies on the cold turf pale and dead; His heart's blood staineth the flowers red, And a wild lament fulfills the air, Adonis! Adonis! CHILDE HAROLD. Lo, a large black-shrouded barge Sadly moves with sails outspread, And mute creatures' muffled features Hold grim watch above the dead. Calm below it lies the poet With his fair face bare and white, Still with yearning ever turning Azure eyes towards heaven's light. As he saileth sadly waileth Some bereaven undine-bride. O'er the springing waves outringing, Hark! a dirge floats far and wide. THE ASRA. Daily the fair Sultan's daughter Wanders to and fro at twilight By the margin of the fountain, Where the waters white are rippling. Daily the young slave at twilight Stands beside the fountain's margin, Where the waters white are rippling, Daily grows he pale and paler. There one evening moved the princess Toward the slave with words swift-spoken "Tell me, tell me what thy name is, Where thy home is, what thy lineage?" Spake the youthful slave: "My name is Mahomet, I come from Yemen; And by birth I am an Asra, One who dieth when he loves." HELENA. Thou hast invoked me from my grave, And through thy magic spell Hast quickened me with fierce desire, This flame thou canst not quell. Oh press thy lips against my lips, Divine is mortal breath; I drink thy very soul from thee. Insatiable is death. SONG. There stands a lonely pine-tree In the north, on a barren height; He sleeps while the ice and snow flakes Swathe him in folds of white. He dreameth of a palm-tree Far in the sunrise-land, Lonely and silent longing On her burning bank of sand. THE NORTH SEA. 1825-26. TO FREDERICK MERCKEL, THE PICTURES OF THE NORTH SEA ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. THE NORTH SEA. FIRST CYCLUS. "To be disinterested in everything, but above all in love and friendship, was my supreme wish, my maxim, my practice; hence my daring expression at a later period: 'If I love thee, what is that to thee?' sprang directly from my heart." Goethe's "Truth and Poetry," Book XIV. I. CORONATION.