When I composed the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain,
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning;
And when I saw the void behind,
I fill'd it up with-froth and wind!
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 destined 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 believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air! And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?
Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined,
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.
But shall I still go revel in those arms
On bliss in which affection takes no part? No, no! farewell! you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart!
DOES the harp of Rosa slumber?
Once it breathed the sweetest number!
Never does a wilder song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odours dying,
Wooes 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!
sine me sit nulla Venus.-Sulpicia.
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!"
And, oh! how often in those eyes,
Which melting beam'd, like azure skies
In dewy vernal weather-
How often have I raptured read
The burning glance, that silent said,
"Now, love, we feel together!"
I SAW the peasant's hand unkind
From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seem'd in very being twined;
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 luxury 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 reserved 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, lured 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!
OH! why should the girl of my soul be in tears
At a meeting of rapture like this,
When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of years
Have been paid by a moment of bliss?
Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,
Which dwells on her memory yet?
Do they flow, like the dews of the amorous night,
From the warmth of the sun that has set?
Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,
That smile, which is loveliest then;
And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,
Thou shalt weep them again and again!
"Good night! good night!"-And is it so?
And must I from my Rosa go?
O Rosa! say " Good night!" once more,
And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,
Till the first glance of dawning light
Shall find us saying, still, "Good night!"
And still "Good night," my Rosa say—
But whisper still, "A minute stay;'
And I will stay, and every minute
Shall have an age of rapture in it.
We'll kiss and kiss in quick delight,
And murmur, while we kiss, "Good night!"
"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh,
And tell me it is time to fly:
And I will vow to kiss no more,
Yet kiss you closer than before;
Till slumber seal our weary sight—
love! my soul! Good night!"
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 withering 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!
O 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 blisses 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;
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