I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains From cloudy steeps; and I grew sad to think Endymion's foot was silent on those mountains. And he but a hush'd name, that Silence keeps In dear remembrance,--lonely, and forlorn, Singing it to herself until she weeps Tears, that perchance still glisten in the morn:-- And as I mused, in dull imaginings, There came a flash of garments, and I knew The awful Muse by her harmonious wings Charming the air to music as she flew-- Anon there rose an echo through the vale Gave back Enydmion in a dreamlike tale. SONNET. TO AN ENTHUSIAST. Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth, Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind, And still a large late love of all thy kind. Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,-- For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth, Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind Thine eyes with tears,--that thou hast not resign'd The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth: For as the current of thy life shall flow, Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd, Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen, Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe Thrice cursed of thy race,--thou art ordain'd To share beyond the lot of common men. TO A COLD BEAUTY. Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winters cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free, Thou dost still lock up thy heart;-- Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, But in the whiteness of thy brow? Scorn and cold neglect are made For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind,-- Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose. Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flow'r, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup? Let not cold December sit Thus in Love's peculiar throne: Brooklets are not prison'd now, But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flow'r of May! SONNET. DEATH. It is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this,--but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft,--and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men. SERENADE.