I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss With which she promised, that when spring returned, She would resign one half of that dear name, And own thenceforth no other name but mine! 1801. THE VISIONARY HOPE. SAD lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, Each night was scattered by its own loud screams: Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 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, He wishes and can wish for this alone! 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 noontide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. And sweet it is, in summer bower, But what is all, to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore! 1798-9. THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 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 Wheel out their giddy moment, then A more precipitated vein Of notes, that eddy in the flow 1806. RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. I. How warm this woodland wild Recess ! II. Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On seaward Quantock's heathy hills, Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray, And high o'er head the skylark shrills. III. No voice as yet had made the air IV. As when a mother doth explore As whom I long had loved before— |