CXXIX.

One moment then, upon the dizzy verge
She stands;—­with face upturn’d against the sky;
A moment more, upon the foamy surge
She gazes, with a calm despairing eye;
Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath,
Which life endures when it confronts with death;—­

CXXX.

Then from the giddy steep she madly springs,
Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly kept
Panting abroad, like unavailing wings,
To save her from her death.—­The sea-maid wept
And in a crystal cave her corse enshrined;
No meaner sepulchre should Hero find!

BALLAD.

  Spring it is cheery,
  Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
  When he’s forsaken,
  Wither’d and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?

  Love will not clip him,
  Maids will not lip him,
Maud and Marian pass him by;
  Youth it is sunny,
  Age has no honey,—­
What can an old man do but die?

  June it was jolly,
  Oh for its folly! 
A dancing leg and a laughing eye;
  Youth may be silly,
  Wisdom is chilly,—­
What can an old man do but die?

  Friends, they are scanty,
  Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;
  Gold’s in his clutches,
  (Buying him crutches!)
What can an old man do but die?

AUTUMN

The Autumn skies are flush’d with gold,
And fair and bright the rivers run;
These are but streams of winter cold,
And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,
In secret boughs no bird can shroud;
These are but leaves that take to wing,
And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

‘Tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms
That on the cheerless valleys fall,
The flowers are in their grassy tombs,
And tears of dew are on them all.

BALLAD.

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love’s eclipse
  And Beauty’s fairest queen,
Though ’tis not for my peasant lips
  To soil her name between: 
A king might lay his sceptre down,
  But I am poor and nought,
The brow should wear a golden crown
  That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair,
  Whose sudden beams surprise,
Might bid such humble hopes beware
  The glancing of her eyes;
Yet looking once, I look’d too long,
  And if my love is sin,
Death follows on the heels of wrong,
  And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem’d wove of lily leaves,
  It was so pure and fine,
O lofty wears, and lowly weaves,—­
  But hodden-gray is mine;
And homely hose must step apart,
  Where garter’d princes stand,
But may he wear my love at heart
  That wins her lily hand!