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And flattening its round cheek upon her knee,
Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare
To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight
She hears her own voice with a new delight;
And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes

aright,

VI. Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! But should disease or chance the darling take, What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake? Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee: Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me?

THE EXCHANGE.*

WE pledged our hearts, my love and I,

I in my arms the maiden clasping; I could not tell the reason why,

But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;

I went, and shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man-in vain !

We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

* Literary Souvenir, 1826.

LOVE'S BURIAL-PLACE.*

Lady. If Love be dead-Poet. And I aver it! Lady. Tell me, Bard ! where Love lies buried ?

Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born :
Oh, gentle dame ! think it no scorn
If, in my fancy, I presume
To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb.
And on that tomb to read the line :-
“Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine,
But took a chill, as I divine,
And died at length of a decline.”

THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. ERE the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no,

No question was ask'd me—it could not be so ! If the life was the question, a thing sent to try, And to live on be Yes; what can No be? to die.

NATURE'S ANSWER. Is't return'd, as 'twas sent? Is't no worse for the

wear? Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what you

were ! I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope.

* The Amulet, 1833.

VOL. II.

Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ?
Make out the inventory; inspect, compare !
Then die--if die you dare !

THE TWO FOUNTS.*

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE

ATTACK OF PAIN. 'TWAS my last waking thought, how it could be t

That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst

endure; When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf,

and he Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me with peering look
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book ;
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin
Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer !
That to let forth, and this to keep within !
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of Pleasure only will to all dispense,
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress

* Annual Register, 1827; Bijou, 1828. + How can it be-A. R.

Choked or turn'd inward, but still issue thence
Unconquerd cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
That gracious thing made up of tears and light,
Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below
Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright;

As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.

Even so, Eliza ! on that face of thine,
On that benignant face, whose look alone
(The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine !)
Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own,

A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing,
But with a silent charm compels the stern
And torturing * Genius of the bitter spring;
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.

Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the fount of pain
O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain ?

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam
On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile,
Had pass'd : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream;

* Fostering—1827-28 (probably a misprint).-ED.

Till audibly at length I cried, as though
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
O sweet, sweet sufferer ; if the case be so,
I pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise !

In every look a barbed arrow send,
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live !
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend !
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give !

* Yes, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat,
He had, or fancied that he had;
Say, 'twas but in his own conceit-

The fancy made him glad !
Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish,
The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish,
The fair fulfilment of his poesy,
When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy!

But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain

Unnourish'd wane;
Faith asks her daily bread,
And Fancy must be fed.
Now so it chanced—from wet or dry,
It boots not how—I know not why—
She miss'd her wonted food; and quickly
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly.

* Printed in The Amulet, 1828, at the end of a Dialogue in Prose.

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