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Bring me tuneful backwood thrushes,
Birds no common eye hath seen,
Dwellers where the red-bud blushes,
As the minstrels of our queen!

No nightingale by Eastern palace,
Worthy plaint for her hath made,
Only Western things for Alice,
Alice of the haunted shade!

STANZAS.

WHY dost thou haunt my breast,
Child of the woody West!

When I have wandered away from thee far?
Coming in silver light

O'er my heart's sable night, Gilding my gloom like a radiant star.

Why in this distant place

Where not a single face

Greets me with smiles I was wont to receive,

Why will thy form intrude,
Breaking my solitude,

Giving me joy, when I'm dying to grieve?—

As when the grape is pressed
So is the heart distressed,

Yielding when crushed its most delicate flood,

Or as the odor lies

Where the young flower dies

Embalmed in its perfume, but bruised in its bud.

Why wilt thou follow me
Over the land and sea,

Like a white Dove on a dark Raven's track?

Luring me home to rest,
In my beloved West,

Where my sad eyes are turned mournfully back.

Go! leave me, loved and blest
Child of my worshipped West,

Land! where the sun goes to sleep on the hills,
And when awaking,

Through black forests breaking,

His lances of silver strike bright on the rills!

Go! thou angelic form,

Rainbow above the storm!

Dazzling in beauty, eluding my arms!

Even to think of thee

Is madness, is ecstasy-

A dream of enchantment--a vision of charms!

Go! leave me all alone,

Like night in the Polar zone,

Where not a morn breaks till life's winter is o'er,

Rather than let me die

Feasting my charméd eye

On the wild lights that illumine that shore.

Why did I ever sup

Of that Circean cup,

Drinking Love's poison from Beauty's bright bowl? Oh! in thy spicy breath,

Eden itself, and death,

Won me to worship, and lost me my soul!

то

GENEVIEVE.

FOR whom shall I my lyric sing,

For whom love's rosy garland weave? For thee, thou seraph stripped of wing! My gentle Genevieve.

As cloud at night, thy hair is black,

Thy cheek like light the sun doth leave,

The crimson print of Evening's track,
Deep blushing Genevieve.

Like hyacinths in snowy bank,

Thy blue eyes 'neath thy brow are set, As if twin stars had in a prank

Hid each within a violet!

Thy features all, are but to me

A mirror, where thy thoughts are seen, from the sea,

As stars which look up
In silver nights serene.

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