I swore, and with an inward thought that seem'd The purpose and the substance of my being, I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment [Earl Henry retires into the wood.] Sandoval [alone]. O Henry! always strivest thou to be great By thine own act—yet art thou never great The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And shape themselves: from earth to heaven they stand, As though they were the pillars of a temple, TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S " SHIPWRECK." AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams, To harp and song from lady's hand and voice; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark! "Cling to the shrouds !" In vain! The breakers roar Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man! Say then, what Muse inspired these genial strains And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of gratitude! remembrances of friend, Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form'd! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me: THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he would For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give THE HAPPY HUSBAND. A FRAGMENT. OFT, oft methinks, the while with thee, A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing life, A pulse of love that ne'er can sleep! Of transient joys, that ask no sting But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying, Wheel out their giddy moment, then A more precipitated vein Of notes, that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. I. HOW warm this woodland wild Recess ! II. Eight springs have flown, since last I lay III. No voice as yet had made the air |