Oh, to loiter where
The sea breaks white
In wild delight
And throws her kisses evermore,
A slave unto the palm-set shore!

Oh, to wander where
The gray moss clings
And south wind sings
Forever, low, enchantingly,
Of islands girdled by the sea!

Oh, I'll journey back
Some day; some day
I'll go away,—
Forsake my land of mountain pine,
To win the heart that captured mine!

Oh, to loiter where
The sea breaks white
In wild delight
And throws her kisses evermore,

Words are but Wind . Tale of a Tub.

If Words are Wind, as some allow;
No Promises can bind;
Since breaking of the strictest Vow,
Is only breaking Wind.

Paraphras'd from O VID .

These Lines I send, impatient of your Stay,
To you, my Lord, who kill me with Delay;
Yet crave not any Answer back, beside
Yourself, the best of Answers to your Bride.
Sure Troy , so hateful to the Grecian Dames,
Is ruin'd now, with dire, consuming Flames;
Tho' scarcely Troy , nor all his King could boast,
Was Worth the Trouble which her Ruin cost.
O! had lewd P ARIS sunk beneath the Tide,
When, o'er the Seas, he sought the Spartan Bride;
I had not then accus'd the ling'ring Day,

O what sublime conceptions fill the soul,
When o'er the dawn-clad Tatra the rapt eye
Wanders; — all thought dissolv'd in sympathy,
And words unutter'd into silence roll!
How the heart heaves when thunder-storms eclipse
The sun, and century-rooted oaks uptear:
When Etna opens wide his fiery lips —
Turns pale the star-hair'd moon and shakes the sphere!
Yet this, and more than this, my soul can bear —
But not thine innocent look. — thy gentle smile —
What magic; might, and majesty, are there:
A trembling agitation shakes me, while

Between me and the noise of strife
Are walls of mountains set with pine;
The dusty, care-strewn paths of life
Lead not to this retreat of mine.

I hear the morning wind awake
Beyond the purple height,
And, in the growing light,
The lap of lilies on the lake.

I live with Echo and with Song,
And Beauty leads me forth to see
Her temple's colonnades, and long
Together do we love to be.

The mountains wall me in, complete,
And leave me but a bit of blue
Above. All year, the days are sweet —

Worthless are the Pathans in reason and understanding,
As the dogs in the courtyards of the butchers are they.
They sold their Sovereignty to the Moghals for gold,
For the titles of the Moghals is all their desire.
The camel with its rich loads has come into their homes,
Yet the only plunder they seek are the bells on the camel's neck.
The very name of the Sarbunni is a title of contempt;
First among the despicable they, the others in less degree.
Of those that are shameless, what else but shame in their actions?

Like a truant boy, unmindful
Of the herd he keeps, thou, idle
Breeze, hast left the white clouds scattered
All about the sky, and wandered
Down to play at leap-frog with the
Grass, and rest in the branches;
While, one by one, the white clouds stray
Apart, and disappear forever.

Like a truant boy, unmindful
Of the herd he keeps, thou, idle
Breeze, hast left the white clouds scattered
All about the sky, and wandered
Down to play at leap-frog with the
Grass, and rest in the branches;
While, one by one, the white clouds stray

I've seen the beauty of the rose,
I've heard the music of the bird,
And given voice to my delight;
I've sought the shapes that come in dreams,
I've reached my hands in eager quest,
To fold them empty to my breast;
While you, the whole of all I've sought —
The love, the beauty, and the dreams —
Have stood, thro' weal and woe, true at
My side, silent at my neglect.

I've seen the beauty of the rose,
I've heard the music of the bird,
And given voice to my delight;
I've sought the shapes that come in dreams,

Perplexed am I, no knowledge mine, of what I am, or what shall be,
From whence I came, and to what quarter I go.
No news has any one brought back of those departed,
However much I inquire of what their state may be.
To-day I see them stay the night in this Hamlet;
But ever, each in his turn, I count them as they quit it,
The world is like a bowl, I, like an Ant inside it:
Distraught I turn within it, and struggle with all my power.
When I consider this world, and the circumstances of mankind,
It is all the play of children, yet I too join in it.

Sing on, till light and shadow meet,
Blithe spirit of the morning air;
I do not know thy name, nor care —
I only know thy song is sweet,
And that my heart beats thanks to thee.
Made pure by thy minstrelsy.

Sing on, till light and shadow meet,
Blithe spirit of the morning air;
I do not know thy name, nor care —
I only know thy song is sweet,
And that my heart beats thanks to thee,
Made pure by thy minstrelsy.