My sleep must be the unwaking sleep, My bed must be the grave: Through my wild brain no more shall move Or fear, or hope, or joy, or love. Yes, dark ills have clouded The dawning in tears; My ripening years: Draws nigh to its close ;- The world shall caress thee And suns rise to bless thee Southey. WHERE IS HE? And where is he? Not by the side That form beloved he marks no more, Those scenes admired no more shall see ; Those scenes are lovely as before, And she as fair ;-but where is he? No, no; the radiance is not dim, That used to gild his favourite hill; The pleasures that were dear to him, Are dear to life and nature still : But, ah! his home is not as fair, Neglected must his gardens be, The lilies droop and wither there, His was the pomp, the crowded hall, His riches, honours, pleasures, all, Desire could frame; but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands Protected by the circling sea, Surrounded by admiring bands, Seemed proudly strong-and where is he? The churchyard bears an added stone, And death displays his banner there: The life is gone, the breath has fled, Neele. THE FICKLENESS OF LOVE. Alas!-how light a cause may move Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, When heaven was all tranquillity! A something light as air a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken O! love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this has shaken And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed As though its waters ne'er could sever, Breaks into floods that part for ever. O you that have the charge of love, He sits, with flowerets fettered round: For even an hour, a minute's flight Is found below far eastern skies,- By which, though light, the links that bind... |