TO MARY.'

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest-and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when th' unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

'Miss Chaworth, the Mary of his « Hours of Idleness,» who married a gentleman of ancient family, but whose marriage was far from proving a happy one.-Editor.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay:

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, save hope, the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling could'st thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream,

Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?

My foolish heart, be still, or break.

TO THYRZA.

I.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been-a word, a look

That softly said, «We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.
And didst thou not, since death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
'T was thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.

Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss so guiltless and refined,

That love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Even passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine; The pledge we wore I wear it still, But where is thine?-ah, where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again;
But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven:

On earth thy love was such to me;

It fain would form my hope in heaven!

II.

AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days—
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am -on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart! 'Tis silent all!--but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still;
Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake,
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.

But he, who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,