Your heart had master'd it's unquiet inmates.
I've met you at the revel, and the dance,
And seen your brow wear that gay look, which charm'd All hearts in former times.
But often, often is the visage masqued
In smiles and revelry, when the heart's wounds
Rankle the sorest; and, when we go forth
Into the cold and smiling world, and seem
The gayest of the gay, we do but bear
Our sorrows with us, as the stricken deer
Bounds on, through field and thicket, with the arrow
That wounds it, in it's side.
Your malady is slight; friends, and new scenes,
And hopes revived, and trustier, truer joys,
Will soon work wonders. Think'st not so, Savona ?
Savona. Look at the Star! look at the Star, Rinaldo!
Rinaldo. Oh Heaven! it does, indeed, wane, and
And that black cloud is near approaching it!
But this is idle, and but feeds the fancies
That prey upon your health. I'll close the casement.
Savona. Oh! no, no, no! for Heaven's sweet sake,
That Star gazed on my birth, and on that Star
My dying eyes shall gaze.
I hope, Savona. Lend me thy hand. Ha!
"Tis strangely hot and feverish; but kind care,
And skill will work it's cure.
That black and ominous cloud.
It touches the Orb's disk. Thank Heaven! his hand
It has o'erwhelm'd the Star
In it's black mantle! Why am I thus moved?
I have no faith in these things, yet I dare not
Speak, or look at him. Ha; the cloud has pass'd
The bright bland orb emerges! Dear Savona!
Laugh at your idle fears: your Star has now
'Scaped all it's ills.
Oh God! so has his Spirit!
Cold, cold indeed his hand! Oh! but to feel
Once more that feverish glow I started from.
Savona! dear Savona!-dead, dead, dead!
"HOMMAGE AUX DAMES." 1825.
WHO is the Monarch so mighty and bright,
Who comes triumphing on in his chariot of light?
The sceptre he bears is more rich to behold,
Than Samarcand's pearls, or Potósi's gold;
His coronal glitters with many a gem,
As though Beauty's bright eyes form'd his diadem,
And his waving wings round his light form play,
Like the rainbow's hues on a Summer's day.
'Tis Love! young Love, th' immortal boy,
The child of Beauty, the parent of Joy;
Even Gods bow down to the Lord of hearts;
Jove's thunder is feebler than Cupid's darts;
And the sword of Mars, and the sceptre of Dis,
Have in turns been conquer'd and sway'd by his :
Then lift high each voice, and set wide each gate,
To welcome young Love to his throne of state.
That Throne is thy heart, Oh Mistress mine!
Dress it in smiles from thine own bright eyne;
The thousands that welcome young Love to his goal;
Are the wishes and passionate hopes of my Soul;
The wings that he flies on, Oh! this sweet kiss,
Dearest! is one, and the other is this;
And those soft lips are the rosy gate
That leads young Love to his throne of state.
"HOMMAGE AUX DAMES." 1825.
THOU Sylvan Wye, since last my feet
Wander'd along thy margin sweet,
I've gazed on many a far-famed stream;
Have seen the Loire's bright waters gleam;
Seen Arveron from his wild source gush;
The dull Scheldt creep, the swift Rhone rush;
And Arve, the proud Alps' froward child,
Run murmuring through it's regions wild:
But none to my delighted eye,
Seem'd lovelier than my own sweet Wye:
Through meads of living verdure driven,
"Twixt hills that seem Earth's links to Heaven;
With sweetest odours breathing round,
With every woodland glory crown'd,
And skies of such Cerulean hue,
A veil of such transparent blue,
That God's own eye seems gazing through.
And thou, proud Goodrich! changed and worn,
By Time, and war, and tempest torn;
Still stand'st thou by that lovely stream,-
Though past thy glory like a dream,-
Stand'st like a monitor, to say,
How Nature lives 'midst Art's decay;
Or, like a Spectre, haunting yet
The spot where all it's joys were set.
Time-hallow'd pile! no more, no more,
Thou hear'st the hostile cannon roar;
No more bold knights thy drawbridge pace,
To Battle, tournament, or chase;
No more the valiant man thy towers;
No more the lovely grace thy bowers;
Nor bright eyes smile o'er the guitar;
Nor the trump stirs bold hearts to war.
The falling meteor o'er thee shoots,
The dull owl in thy chambers hoots;
Now doth the creeping ivy twine,
Where once bloom'd rose and eglantine;
And there, where once in rich array
Met lords, and knights, and ladies gay,
The bat is clinging to the walls,
And the fox nestles in thy halls.
"LITERARY SOUVENIR." 1827.
Paraphrased from the 137th Psalm.
WE sat us down by Babel's streams,
And dreamt soul-sadd'ning Memory's dreams;
And dark thoughts o'er our spirits crept
Of Sion, and we wept, we wept !
Our Harps upon the willows hung,
Silent, and tuneless, and unstrung;
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