My path is West! My heart before
Bounds o'er the dancing wave;
Yet something's left I must deplore —
A magic wild and grave:
Though Honor live and Romance dwell
By mine own streams and woods,
Yet not in spire and keep so well
Are built such lofty moods.

England, perchance our love were more
If we were matched and met
In battle squadron on the shore,
Or here on ocean set:

How were all other banners furled
If that great duel rose !
For we alone in all the world
Are worthy to be foes.

If we should fail or you should fly, 'T were but a twinned disgrace, For both are bound to bear on high The laurels of one race: —

THE mighty soul that is ambition's mate,
Tied to the shiftings of a certain star,
Forgets the circle of its mortal state
And what its planetary aspects are,
Till, in conjunctive course and wandering,
Out of its trance and treasure-dream of
hope

It wakens, poor illusionary thing,
Wingless, without desire, or deed, or scope.
So have I with imaginations played
Till I have lost life's sure and single good,
Forgotten friendships, broken vows, and
made

My heart a highway for ingratitude,