TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE. MYRTLE-LEAF, that, ill besped, When the partridge o'er the sheaf Lightly didst thou, foolish thing! Gaily from thy mother-stalk Wert thou danced and wafted high Soon on this unsheltered walk Flung to fade, to rot and die. TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE MAIDEN, that with sullen brow Him who lured thee and forsook, Oft I watched with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look, Soft the glances of the youth, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; . But no sound like simple truth, But no true love in his eye. Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Thou hast known deceit and folly, With a musing melancholy Inly armed, go, Maiden! go. Mother sage of self-dominion, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy! Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, While she moults the firstling plumes, Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, And embathe in heavenly light. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast In intricacies of laborious song. These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment. Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eycs some maid of humbler state, While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. O give me, from this heartless scene released, Or lies the purple evening on the bay Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, THE KEEPSAKE. THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I loved,) In the cool morning twilight, early waked Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Making a quiet image of disquiet In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she owned her love, From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched And own thenceforth no other name but mine! One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht), and, I believe, in Denmark and Sweden, TO A LADY. WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK.' AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, Cling to the shrouds !" In vain! The breakers roar― Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, No classic roamer, but a shipwrecked man! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains The elevating thought of suffered pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name Of gratitude! remembrances of friend, Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee: And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. |