Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day,
  Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night,
  Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away
  Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight,
  In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight,
  In every thought thy form shall bear a part,
  In every dream thy memory shall unite,
  Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! 
Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart!

  Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint
  For worth that only dwells in heaven above,
  And if thou’rt not the Ethna that I paint,
  Then thou art not the Ethna that I love;
  If thou art not as gentle as the dove,
  And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth
  Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove
  Than that dark revelation; but in sooth,
Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is truth.

“Not known.”

On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old residence, marked on the envelope, “Not Known.”

A beauteous summer-home had I
  As e’er a bard set eyes on—­
A glorious sweep of sea and sky,
  Near hills and far horizon. 
Like Naples was the lovely bay,
  The lovely hill like Rio—­
And there I lived for many a day
  In Campo de Estio.

It seemed as if the magic scene
  No human skill had planted;
The trees remained for ever green,
  As if they were enchanted: 
And so I said to Sweetest-eyes,
  My dear, I think that we owe
To fairy hands this paradise
  Of Campo de Estio.

How swiftly flew the hours away! 
  I read and rhymed and revelled;
In interchange of work and play,
  I built, and drained, and levelled;
“The Pope,” so “happy,” days gone by
  (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio),
Was far less happy then than I
  In Campo de Estio.

For children grew in that sweet place,
  As in the grape wine gathers—­
Their mother’s eyes in each bright face,
  In each light heart, their father’s: 
Their father, who by some was thought
  A literary ‘leo,’
Ne’er dreamed he’d be so soon forgot
  In Campo de Estio.

But so it was:—­Of hope bereft,
  A year had scarce gone over,
Since he that sweetest place had left,
  And gone—­we’ll say—­to Dover,
When letters came where he had flown. 
  Returned him from the “P.  O.,”
On which was writ, O Heavens!  “Not known
  in Campo de Estio!”

“Not known” where he had lived so long,
  A “cintra” home created,
Where scarce a shrub that now is strong
  But had its place debated;
Where scarce a flower that now is shown,
  But shows his care:  O Dio! 
And now to be described, “Not known
  In Campo de Estio.”

That pillar from the Causeway brought—­
  This fern from Connemara—­
That pine so long and widely sought—­
  This Cedrus deodara—­
That bust (if Shakespeare’s doth survive,
  And busts had brains and ’brio’),
Might keep his name at least alive
  In Campo de Estio.