SWEET lady! look not thus again:
Those little pouting smiles recall
A maid remember'd now with pain,
Who was my love, my life, my all!
Oh! while this heart delirious took
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,
And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh
Yes, I did love her-madly love-
She was the sweetest, best deceiver
And oft she swore she'd never rove!
And I was destin'd to believe her!
Then, lady, do not wear the smile
Of her whose smile could thus betray.
Alas! I think the lovely wile
Again might steal my heart away.
And when the spell that stole my mind
On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resign'd
Will err again, and fly to thee!
Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream,
A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit !
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;
Your heart was only mine, I once believ'd. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air! And must I say, my hopes were all deceiv'd? Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twin'd, That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal : Julia! 'tis pity, pity makes you kind;
You know I love, and you would seem to feel.
Does the harp of Rosa slumber?
Once it breath'd the sweetest number
Never does a wilder song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odours dying,
Woos it with enamour'd sighing.
Does the harp of Rosa cease?
Once it told a tale of peace
To her lover's throbbing breast-
Then he was divinely blest!
Ah! but Rosa loves no more,
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;
And her harp neglected lies;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent harp-forgotten lover-
Rosa's love and song are over!
OUR hearts, my love, were doom'd to be
The genuine twins of sympathy:
They live with one sensation:
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heart-strings musically move,
And thrill with like vibration.
How often have I heard thee say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play
When mine no more is moving!
Since, now, to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none
Such sympathy in loving!
J SAW the peasant's hand unkind
From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seem'd in very being twin'd;
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever?
Not so the widow'd ivy shines:
Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
And scatters all its blooms away! Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till fate disturb'd their tender ties : Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dies!
ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
SWEET spirit! if thy airy sleep
Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs,
Oh! I will weep, in lux'ry weep,
Till the last heart's-drop fills mine eyes
But if thy sainted soul can feel,
And mingles in our misery;
Then, then, my breaking heart I'll seal-
Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me!
The beam of morn was on the stream,
But sullen clouds the day deform:
Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam,
And death, alas! that sullen storm.
Thou wert not form'd for living here,
For thou wert kindred with the sky:
Yet, yet we held thee all so dear,
We thought thou wert not form'd to die!
WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S
COMMON-PLACE BOOK.
HERE is one leaf reserv'd for me,
From all thy sweet memorials free;
And here my simple song might tell
The feelings thou must guess so well
But could I thus, within thy mind.
One little vacant corner find,
Where no impression yet is seen,
Where no memorial yet has been.
Oh! it should be my sweetest care
To write my name for ever there.
LIKE who trusts to summer skies
And puts his little bark to sea,
Is he who, lur'd by smiling eyes,
Consigns his simple heart to thee.
For fickle is the summer wind,
And sadly may the bark be tost;
For thou art sure to change thy mind,
And then the wretched heart is lost
WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.
THE wisest soul, by anguish torn,
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shrining casket's worn,
The gem within will tarnish too.
But love's an essence of the soul,
Which sinks not with this chain of clay :
Which throbs beyond the chill control
Of with'ring pain or pale decay.
And surely, when the touch of Death
Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties,
Love still attends the soaring breath,
And makes it purer for the skies!
Oh, Rosa! when, to seek its sphere.
My soul shall leave this orb of men.
That love it found so blissful here
Shall be its best of blesses then!
And, as in fabled dreams of old,
Some airy genius, child of time, Presided o'er each star that roll'd,
And track'd it through its path sublime;
So thou, fair planet, not unled,
Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;
Thy lover's shade, divinely wed,
Shall linger round thy wand'ring way.
Let other spirits range the sky,
And brighten in the solar gem;
I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,
Nor envy worlds of suns to them!
No!-when that heart shall cease to beat,
And when that breath at length is free;
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,
And mingle to eternity!
In lachrymas verterat omne merum."-Tib. lib. i eleg 5
PRESS the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple show'r;
And while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think-in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe!
FRIEND of my soul! this goblet sip,
"Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
But, oh! 'tis more sincere.
Like her delusive beam,
"Twill steal away thy mind:
But, like Affection's dream,
It leaves no sting behind!
Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
These flow'rs were cull'd at noon;-
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But, ah! not half so soon!
For though the flower's decay'd,
Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betray'd,
The heart can bloom no more!
"Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more!"-St John, viii.
Он, woman! if by simple wile
Thy soul has stray'd from honour's track,
'Tis mercy only can beguile,
By gentle ways, the wand'rer back.
The stain that on thy virtue lies,
Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay;
As clouds that sully morning skies
May all be wept in show'rs away.
Go, go-be innocent, and live
The tongues of men may wound thee sore:
But Heav'n in pity can forgive,
And bids thee " go, and sin no more!"
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