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In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite,
I cannot veil, or droop my sight,
But am as nothing in its light:
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set,
Ev'n while we gaze on it,
Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow
To a full face, there like a sun remain
Fix'd—then as slowly fade again,

And draw itself to what it was before;

So full, so deep, so slow,

Thought seems to come and go
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore.

As thunder-clouds that, hung on high,

Roof'd the world with doubt and fear,
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere,
Grow golden all about the sky;
In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation,
Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove

Rolling slide, and lying still

Shadow forth the banks at will :

Or sometimes they swell and move,

Pressing up against the land,
With motions of the outer sea :

And the self-same influence

Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love,

Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,

And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleanore.

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,
While the amorous, odorous wind
Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ;

Or, in a shadowy saloon,
On silken cushions half reclined ;

I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,

While I muse upon thy face;
And a languid fire creeps

Thro' my veins to all my frame,
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon

From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth ; and then, as in a swoos,

With dinning sound my ears are rife,

My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my colour, I lose my breath,

I drink the cup of a costly death,
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life.

I die with my delight, before

I hear what I would hear from thee;

Yet tell my name again to me,
I would be dying evermore,
So dying ever, Eleänoro.



I SEE the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about

His dusty forehead drily curld, Seem'd half-within and half-without,

And full of dealings with the world ?

In yonder chair I see him sit,

Three fingers round the old silver cupI see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest-gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul

Su full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,

His memory scarce can make nie, sad.

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss :

My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss

Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life,

But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,

That we may die the self-same day.

Have I not found a happy earth ?

I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth

I'd almost live my life again.
So sweet it seems with thee to walk,

And once again to woo thee mine-
It seems in after-dinner talk

Across the walnuts and the wine

To be the long and listless boy

Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high

Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you

Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro'

By some wild skylark's matin song.

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