CHARLES WOLFE

But when I speak thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead !

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own ; But there I lay thee in thy grave,

And I am now alone !

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore !

��PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

60?. Hymn of Tan

'ROM the forests and highlands We come, we come ; From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings.

��F;

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