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A far conserva, e cumulo d' amanti.- Past. Fid.
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep
That used to shade thy looks of light;
When other suns are sunk in night.
Has never throbb'd with guilty sting;
Where Slumber could repose his wing!
Which glow like roses in the sun,
Except for what her eyes have done !
Does Slumber from her eyelids rove?
Perhaps, oh, sylph! perhaps 't is love!
AND are you then a thing of art,
Seducing all and loving none ?
Which every coxcomb thinks his own !
Which powerless of enjoying any,
By trifling impotent with many ?
And through a round of danglers run,
Could never wake to feel for one.
And I shall calia my jealous breast;
And share your simpers with the rest.
Oh! if another share that heart,
But mingle mercy with your art
Than find you to be all divine,
Yet know that heart would not be mine!
When Phæbus hastens to his pillow,
Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn
Floats wild along the winding shore : If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green :
If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen!
LOVE IN A STORM
Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem,
Et dominam tenero continuisse sinu. Tibullus.
Loud sung the wind in the ruins above,
Which murmur'd the warnings of time o'er our When Time was entwining the garland of years,
head; Which to crown my beloved was given,
While fearless we offer'd devotions to Love, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,
The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed. Yet the flowers were all gather'd in heaven!
Damp was the chill of the wintry air, And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,
But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite; May its verdure for ever be new!
Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare, Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, But it show'd me my Julia in languid delight. And Pity shall nurse it with dew!
To my bosom she nestled, and felt not a fear,
Her sighs were as sweet, and her murmurs as dear, How sweetly could I lay my head
As if she lay lull'd on a pillow of down!
Jessy on a bank was sleeping,
A flower beneath her bosom lay;
Love, upon her slumber creeping,
Stole the flower and flew away!
Pity, then, poor Jessy's ruin, I This poem, and some others of the same pensive cast, Who, becalm'd by Slumber's wing, we may suppose, were the result of the fero melancholy
Never felt what Love was doingmoments which a life so short and so pleasant as that of the author could have allowed.-E.
Never dream'd of such a thing.
THE BALLAD.' Thou hast sent me a flowery band,
And told me 't was fresh from the field; That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand,
And the purest of odours would yield. And indced it was fragrant and fair;
But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air,
And would surely be sweeter to me! Then take it, and let it entwine
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little flow'ret will shine
More rich than a gem to my sight.
And if along thy lip and cheek
That smile of heavenly softness play, Which,-ah! forgive a mind that 's weak,
So oft has stolen my mind away; Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,
That comes to charm me into bliss : I'll gaze and die—who would not die,
If death were half so sweet as this?
1 This ballad was probably suggested by the following Epigram in Martial:
Intactas quare mittis mihi, Polla, coronas,
Epig. xc. lib. 11.-E.
WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE BOOK,
CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES ;" In which every one that opened it should contribute
But kiss me, kiss me while I die,
And, oh! I live again!
And, oh! revive with kisses still!
And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept
Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb! A warm tear gush'd—the wintry air
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away:
At morn it glitter'd in the ray!
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem!
TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. This tribute 's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee emblem of himself! The book of life, which I have traced, Has been, like thee, a motley waste Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, One folly bringing hundreds more. Some have indeed been writ so neat, In characters so fair, so sweet, That those who judge not too severely Have said they loved such sollies dearly! Yet still, O book! the allusion stands; For these were penn'd by female hands; The rest,-alas! I own the truth, Have all been scribbled so uncouth, That prudence, with a withering look, Disdainful flings away the book. Like thine, its pages here and there Have oft been staind with blots of care ; And sometimes hours of peace, I own, Upon some fairer leaves have shone, White as the snowings of that Heaven By which those hours of peace were given But now no longer-such, oh! such The blast of Disappointment's touch! No longer now those hours appear; Each leaf is sullied by a tear : Blank, blank is every page with care ; Not e'en a folly brightens there. Will they yet brighten ?-Never, never ! Then shut the book, O God! for ever!
In bona cur quisquam tertius ista venit ?- Ovid
So! Rosa turns her back on me,
And thou hast won the lovely trifle ;
And I must all my anguish stifle : While thou for ever linger'st nigh,
Scowling, muttering, gloating, mumming Like some sharp, busy, fretful fly,
About a twinkling taper humming
WRITTEN IN THE SAME. TO THE PRETTY LITTLE MRS.
Magis venustatem an brevilatem mireris incertum est.
Macrob. Sat. lib. ii. cap. 2.
This journal of folly 's an emblem of me;
If real woe disturbs your peace,
And I will bid your weeping cease But if with Fancy's vision'd fears,
With dreams of woe your bosom thrill; You look so lovely in your tears,
That I must bid you drop them still !
In your eyes I read it all,
In those tears that fall.
You love, you live for only me! Beam, yet beam that killing eve, Bid me expire in luscious pain;
SONG. HAVE you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Such was my love, and many a time,
When sleep has given thee to my breast,
And thou hast seem'd to share the crime
Which made thy lover wildly blest ;
E'en then, in all that rich delusion,
When, by voluptuous visions fired,
My soul, in rapture's warm confusion,
Has on a phantom's lip expired!
E'en then some purer thoughts woul.
Amid my senses' warm excess;
And at the moment-oh! e'en then
I've started from thy melting press,
And blush'd for all I've dared to feel,
Yet sigh'd to feel it all again!
Such was my love, and still, O still
My heart might be a taintless shrine,
And thou its votive saint should be :
There, there I'd make thee all divine, And did you not mark the paly form
Myself divine in honouring thee. Which rode on the silver mist of the heath,
But, oh! that night! that fatal night! And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm ?
When both bewilder’d, both betray'd,
We sank beneath the flow of soul, Was it a wailing bird of the gloom,
Which for a moment mock'd control; Which shrieks on the house of woe all night?
And on the dangerous kiss delay'd, Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,
And almost yielded to delight! To howl and to feed till the glance of light?
God! bow I wish'd, in that wild hour, 'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood,
That lips alone, thus stamp'd with heat
Had for a moment all the power Nor shivering fiend that hung in the blast; 'T was the shade of Helderic-man of blood
To make our souls effusing meet! It screams for the guilt of days that are past !
That we might mingle by the breath
In all of love's delicious death ; See how the red, red lightning strays,
And in a kiss at once be blest, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!
As, oh! we trembled at the rest! Now on the leafless yew it plays,
Pity me, love! I'll pity thee, Where hangs the shield of this son of death! If thou indeed hast felt like me.
All, all my bosom's peace is o'er ! That shield is blushing with murderous stains ;
At night, which was my hour of calm, Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;
When from the page of classic lore, It is blown by storms and wash'd by rains,
From the pure fount of ancient lay, But neither can take the blood away!
My soul had drawn the placid balm Of by that yew, on the blasted field,
Which charm'd its little griefs away; Demons dance to the red moon's light;
Ah! there I find that balm no more. While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging
Those spells, which make us oft forge shield
The fleeting troubles of the day,
In deeper sorrows only whet
With wearied sense and wakeful eye,
While my brain maddens, where, wher
Is that serene consoling prayer, To love thee with a spirit's love;
Which once has harbinger'd my rest, To make thy purer wish my own,
When the still soothing voice of Heaven And mingle with thy mind alone.
Has seem'd to whisper in my breast, Oh! I appeal to those pure dreams
“ Sleep on, thy errors are forgiven !" In which my soul has hung on thee,
No, though I still in semblance pray, And I've forgot thy witching form,
My thoughts are wandering far away, And I've forgot the liquid beams
And e'en the name of Deity
Is murmur'd out in sighs for thee!'
i This irregular recurrence of the rhymes is adopted from And bid it throb with guiltier fires.
the light poetry of the French, and is, I think, particularly suited to express the varieties of feeling. In gentler eme
tions, the verses may flow periodic and regular; and in the 1 This poem is perfectly in the taste of the present day-transition to violent passion, con assume all the animated “his nam plebecula gaudet."-E.
abruptness of blank verse. Besides, by dispensing with the
For your dear little lips, to their destiny true,
Seem'd to know they were born for the use of anBUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY JULIA ON THE
other; DEATH OF HER BROTHER.
And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do, THOUGH sorrow long has worn my heart;
Were eternally biting and kissing each other. Though every day I've counted o'er
And then you were darting from eyelids so sly,-Has brought a new and quickening smart To wounds that rankled fresh before;
Half open, half shutting,--such tremulous light:
Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye Though in my earliest life bereft
More comical things than I ever shall write.
And oft, as we mingled our legs and our feet,
I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether
In yours or in mine—but I know it was sweet, I still had hopes—for hope will stay
And I think we both felt it and trembled together. After the sunset of delight ; So like the star which ushers day,
At length when arrived, at our supper we sat, We scarce can think it heralds night!
I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain,
That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that. I hoped that, after all its strife,
And Fanny should go back to Timmol again.
Yet I swore not that I was in love with you Fanny, Find harbour in a brother's breast.
Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true ;
I but said—what I've said very often to many, That brother's breast was warm with truth,
There's few I would rather be kissing than you. Was bright with honour's purest ray ; He was the dearest, gentlest youth
Then first did I learn that you once had believed Oh! why then was he torn away ?
Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men ; He should have stay'd, have linger'd here,
And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceived,
That I thought you perhaps might be tempted To calm his Julia's every woe;
again. He should have chased each bitter tear, And not have caused those tears to flow.
But you told me that passion a moment amused,
Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting; We saw his youthful soul expand
And check'd me so softly that, while you refused, In blooms of genius, nursed by taste ;
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 't was consenting ! While Science, with a fostering hand, Upon his brow her chaplet placed.
And still I entreated, and still you denied, We saw his gradual opening mind
Till I almost was made to believe you sincere; Enrich'd by all the graces dear;
Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you Enlighten'd, social, and refined,
sigh'd, In friendship firm, in love sincere.
And when you repulsed me, 't was done with a
tear. Such was the youth we loved so well; Such were the hopes that fate denied
In vain did I whisper, “There's nobody nigh;" We loved, but, ah! we could not tell
In vain with the tremors of passion implore; How deep, how dearly, till he died !
Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply
I acknowledged them both, and I ask'd for no Close as the fondest links could strain,
Twined with my very heart he grew; And by that fate which breaks the chain,
Was I right?-oh! I cannot believe I was wrong. The heart is almost broken too !
Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again ; And may Providence guide her uninjured along,
Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain !