She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to the tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One ray the more, one shade the less

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow

But tell of days in goodness spent

A mind at peace with all below,


A heart whose love is innocent.

  When We Two Parted

When we two parted,
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met--
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--

With silence and tears.

   I will not ask where thou liest low,
       Nor gaze upon the spot;
   There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
       So I behold them not:
   It is enough for me to prove
   That what I lov'd, and long must love,
       Like common earth can rot;
   To me there needs no stone to tell,
   'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.
 

   Yet did I love thee to the last
       As fervently as thou,
   Who didst not change through all the past,
       And canst not alter now.
   The love where Death has set his seal,
   Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
       Nor falsehood disavow:
   And, what were worse, thou canst not see
   Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
 

   The better days of life were ours;
       The worst can be but mine:
   The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
       Shall never more be thine.
   The silence of that dreamless sleep
   I envy now too much to weep;
       Nor need I to repine
   That all those charms have pass'd away,
   I might have watch'd through long decay.
 

   The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
       Must fall the earliest prey;
   Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
       The leaves must drop away:
   And yet it were a greater grief
   To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
       Than see it pluck'd to-day;
   Since earthly eye but ill can bear
   To trace the change to foul from fair.
 

   I know not if I could have borne
       To see thy beauties fade;
   The night that follow'd such a morn
       Had worn a deeper shade:
   Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
   And thou wert lovely to the last,
       Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
   As stars that shoot along the sky
   Shine brightest as they fall from high.
 

   As once I wept, if I could weep,
       My tears might well be shed,
   To think I was not near to keep
       One vigil o'er thy bed;
   To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
     To fold thee in a faint embrace,
       Uphold thy drooping head;
   And show that love, however vain,
   Nor thou nor I can feel again.
 

   Yet how much less it were to gain,
       Though thou hast left me free,
   The loveliest things that still remain,
       Than thus remember thee!
   The all of thine that cannot die
   Through dark and dread Eternity
       Returns again to me,
   And more thy buried love endears
   Than aught except its living years. 

Dear doctor, I have read your play

Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 
Which is a good one in its way, 
Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
With tears that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 
I like your moral and machinery; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery! 
Your dialogue is apt and smart; 
The play's concoction full of art; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and everybody dies; 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see; 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But--and I grieve to speak it--plays 
Are drugs--mere drugs, Sir, nowadays. 
I had a heavy loss by Manuel -- 
Too lucky if it prove not annual-- 
And Sotheby, with his damn'd Orestes 
(Which, by the way, the old bore's best is), 
Has lain so very long on hand 
That I despair of all demand; 
I've advertis'd--but see my books, 
Or only watch my shopman's looks; 
Still Ivan , Ina and such lumber 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 
There's Byron too, who once did better, 
Has sent me--folded in a letter-- 
A sort of--it's no more a drama 
Than Darnley , Ivan or Kehama : 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he's lost his wits at Venice, 
Or drain'd his brains away as stallion 
To some dark-eyed and warm Italian; 
In short, Sir, what with one and t'other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste; excuse each blunder; 
The coaches through the street so thunder! 
My room's so full; we've Gifford here 
Reading MSS with Hookham Frere, 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming articles, 
The Quarterly --ah, Sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review! 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 
Short compass what--but, to resume; 
As I was saying, Sir, the room-- 
The room's so full of wits and bards, 
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres and Wards, 
And others, neither bards nor wits-- 
My humble tenement admits 
All persons in the dress of Gent., 
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
A party dines with me today, 
All clever men who make their way: 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton and Chantrey 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 
They're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Staël's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance-- 
Pray Heaven she tell the truth of France! 
'Tis said she certainly was married 
To Rocca, and had twice miscarried, 
No--not miscarried, I opine-- 
But brought to bed at forty nine. 
Some say she died a Papist; some 
Are of opinion that's a hum; 
I don't know that--the fellow, Schlegel, 
Was very likely to inveigle 
A dying person in compunction 
To try the extremity of unction. 
But peace be with her! for a woman 
Her talents surely were uncommon. 
Her publisher (and public too) 
The hour of her demise may rue, 
For never more within his shop he-- 
Pray--was she not interr'd at Coppet? 
Thus run our time and tongues away; 
But, to return, Sir, to your play; 
Sorry, Sir, but I cannot deal, 
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
My hands are full--my head so busy, 
I'm almost dead--and always dizzy; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 
                                        JOHN MURRAY 

*Dr John William Polidori (1795-1821), Physician and Author.
Polidori's most noted work is "The Vampyre"

'Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land -- Good Night!

'A few short hours and He will rise

To give the Morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother Earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

'Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,

Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong,

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along.' --

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee -- and one above.

'My father bless'd be fervently,

Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again.' --

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye;

If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry. --

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman?

Or shiver at the gale?'--

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;

But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make?'--

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.

'For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.

'And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea;

But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

He'd tear me where he stands.

'With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome ye deserts, and ye caves!


My native land -- Good Night!'