And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest-- I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty's breath-- Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me. * * * * * But _now_ my soul hath too much room-- Gone are the glory and the gloom-- The black hath mellow'd into gray, And all the fires are fading away. My draught of passion hath been deep-- I revell'd, and I now would sleep-- And after drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the bowl-- An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away. But dreams--of those who dream as I, Aspiringly, are damned, and die: Yet should I swear I mean alone, By notes so very shrilly blown, To break upon Time's monotone, While yet my vapid joy and grief Are tintless of the yellow leaf-- Why not an imp the greybeard hath, Will shake his shadow in my path-- And e'en the greybeard will o'erlook Connivingly my dreaming-book. * * * * * DOUBTFUL POEMS. * * * * * ALONE. From childhood's hour I have not been As others were--I have not seen As others saw--I could not bring My passions from a common spring-- From the same source I have not taken My sorrow--I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone-- And all I loved--_I_ loved alone-- _Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn Of a most stormy life--was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still-- From the torrent, or the fountain-- From the red cliff of the mountain-- From the sun that round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold-- From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by-- From the thunder and the storm-- And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. March 17, 1829. * * * * * TO ISADORE. I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves, Whose shadows fall before Thy lowly cottage door-- Under the lilac's tremulous leaves-- Within thy snowy clasped hand The purple flowers it bore. Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand, Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land-- Enchantress of the flowery wand, Most beauteous Isadore! II. And when I bade the dream Upon thy spirit flee, Thy violet eyes to me Upturned, did overflowing seem With the deep, untold delight Of Love's serenity; Thy classic brow, like lilies white And pale as the Imperial Night Upon her throne, with stars bedight, Enthralled my soul to thee!