The strain that round thee lov'd to sail, And hush thy bosom's voice of wail The waking truth that still fulfilled it ; Can ne'er pursue my changes through; Nor earthly words tell what delight On each of these wild changes grew. But, oh, this was not half that bless'd; Another torch of joy was beaming, gave its glow to all the rest, It And, like a halo round them streaming, It was too glorious e'en for dreaming! For when, methought, my last true sigh Fled with my fleeting breath, The love no living prayer could buy Fell fondly to my lot in death; And round my mem'ry sweetly clung, That ne'er could bloom less fair than now, Nor yield one flower to mortal brow. "The soul that stoop'd for love to bind, But thought the scorn in woman's eye More graced it than the tear behind; And many a heart had pass'd away, And many a fervent vow was chill'd, Before I learn'd how weak are they Who stem the tide that nature will'd. Ambition- pride may have their time, Though never made for woman's breast; But love hath been the only clime Wherein her hopes might rest. Alas! that clime had nursed its bloom, Memorial of the worthless store, Than these may feign or I may speak. In true-love tones he tells me still And gives me gleams of scenes so bright If sacred still his mem'ry be, And my lone sorrow ne'er recline On soul that loves me less than he." Thus nought was wanting to my bliss Thy spirit kept his watch; but this With that I bent me o'er thy face, To steal thy spirit's first embrace; Where all that 's fairest is the first To mock his hopes and melt away; And nought but disappointment sure, Its hour of bliss, its age of blasting? And on my lips thy lips confessed To speechless question speechlessly replying; Whiles on thine own blue dwelling turning, Whiles on the form which late had staid thee; Now first with angel blushes learning How gloriously the heavens had made thee! 'Twas thus our spirits met at last, Earth and its mem'ry thus we pass'd, Upon the breath of rapture fleeing, Intense and endless as our being. THE FOX-HUNT. Poor Tom, whom the foul fiend hath made proud Of heart to ride on a bay trotting horse. King Lear. My friend Bob is a vastly clever young man. There are few things which he cannot do even to his own satisfaction, which, considering his fastidious taste, with respect to other people, is saying all that is necessary. It is the case with a great many gifted persons of my acquaintance that they cannot restrain themselves from claiming their just dues when they hear others boasting of things which they can do much better themselves. Such a person is my friend Bob. We happened to be invited, one day last winter, to a large dinner-party, where we met the chief of the neighbouring gentry; and here, as on all other occasions, my friend established |