And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed
That cold lean hand:—­’Dost thou remember yet
When the curved moon then lingering in the west 220

’Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet,
How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 
’Tis just one year—­sure thou dost not forget—­

’Then Plato’s words of light in thee and me
Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, 225
For we had just then read—­thy memory

’Is faithful now—­the story of the feast;
And Agathon and Diotima seemed
From death and dark forgetfulness released...’

FRAGMENT 3.

And when the old man saw that on the green
Leaves of his opening ... a blight had lighted 230
He said:  ’My friend, one grief alone can wean

A gentle mind from all that once delighted:—­
Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden
With feelings which should not be unrequited.’ 235

And Athanase ... then smiled, as one o’erladen
With iron chains might smile to talk (?) of bands
Twined round her lover’s neck by some blithe maiden,
And said...

FRAGMENT 4.

’Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings 240
From slumber, as a sphered angel’s child,
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,

Stands up before its mother bright and mild,
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems—­
So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled 245

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
The fresh and radiant Earth.  The hoary grove
Waxed green—­and flowers burst forth like starry beams;—­

The grass in the warm sun did start and move,
And sea-buds burst under the waves serene:—­ 250
How many a one, though none be near to love,

Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen
In any mirror—­or the spring’s young minions,
The winged leaves amid the copses green;—­

How many a spirit then puts on the pinions 255
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,
And his own steps—­and over wide dominions

Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms—­the wide world shrinks below,
When winter and despondency are past. 260

FRAGMENT 5.

’Twas at this season that Prince Athanase
Passed the white Alps—­those eagle-baffling mountains
Slept in their shrouds of snow;—­beside the ways

The waterfalls were voiceless—­for their fountains
Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, 265
Or by the curdling winds—­like brazen wings