No, Music, thou art not the ‘food
Unless Love feeds upon its own sw
Till it becomes all Music murmurs

When a lover clasps his fairest,
Then be our dread sport the rarest
Their caresses were like the chaff
In the tempest, and be our laugh
His despair—her epitaph!

Away! the moor is dark beneath the
Rapid clouds have drank the last p
Away! the gathering winds will cal
And profoundest midnight shroud th
Pause not! The time is past! Ever

‘O happy Earth, reality of Heaven
To which those restless souls that
Throng through the human universe,
Thou consummation of all mortal ho
Thou glorious prize of blindly wor

Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, e
Who staggers forth into the air an
From the dark chamber of a mortal
Bewildered, and incapable, and eve
Fancying strange comments in her d

Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love’€™s sweet
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mo
Blossoms which were the joys that

There late was One within whose s
As light and wind within some deli
That fades amid the blue noon’s bu
Genius and death contended. None
The sweetness of the joy which mad

EPODE 1a.
I stood within the City disinterr
And heard the autumnal leaves like
Of spirits passing through the str
The Mountain’s slumberous voice a

Orphan Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry Hours, smile instead,
For the Year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,

Thou art fair, and few are fairer
Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean;
They are robes that fit the wearer
Those soft limbs of thine, whose m
Ever falls and shifts and glances