SEMELE.

No praise to me!

My joy‘ twas to be nothing but the glass

Thro’ which the general boon of Heaven should pass,

To focus upon thee.

Nor is't thy blame

Thou first should'st glow, and, after, fade i’ the flame.

It takes more might

Than God has given thee, Dear, so long to feel delight.

Shall I, alas,

Reproach thee with thy change and my regret?

Blind fumblers that we be

About the portals of felicity!

The wind of words would scatter, tears would wash

Quite out the little heat

Beneath the silent and chill-seeming ash,

Perchance, still slumbering sweet.