Saturn and Love their long repose
  Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
  Than many unsubdued: 
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return? 
  Cease! must men kill and die? 
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
  Of bitter prophecy. 
The world is weary of the past,
O might it die or rest at last!

78. Stanzas.  Written in Dejection, near Naples.

I.

  The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
    The waves are dancing fast and bright,
  Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
    The purple noon’s transparent might,
    The breath of the moist earth is light,
  Around its unexpanded buds;
    Like many a voice of one delight,
  The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City’s voice itself is soft like Solitude’s.

II.

  I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
    With green and purple seaweeds strown;
  I see the waves upon the shore,
    Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: 
    I sit upon the sands alone,
  The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
    Is flashing round me, and a tone
  Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

III.

  Alas!  I have nor hope nor health,
    Nor peace within nor calm around,
  Nor that content surpassing wealth
    The sage in meditation found,
    And walked with inward glory crowned—­
  Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 
    Others I see whom these surround—­
  Smiling they live and call life pleasure;—­
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

IV.

  Yet now despair itself is mild,
    Even as the winds and waters are;
  I could lie down like a tired child,
    And weep away the life of care
    Which I have borne and yet must bear,
  Till death like sleep might steal on me,
    And I might feel in the warm air
  My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.

V.

  Some might lament that I were cold,
    As I, when this sweet day is gone,
  Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
    Insults with this untimely moan;
    They might lament—­for I am one
  Whom men love not,—­and yet regret,
    Unlike this day, which, when the sun
  Shall in its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

79. The Indian Serenade.

I.

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright: 
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—­who knows how? 
To thy chamber window, Sweet!