If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
'He was, indeed, a tender soul-
No critic law, no chill control,
Should ever freeze, by timid art,
The flowings of so fond a heart!'
Yes! soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hailed me Passion's warmest child!
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh let my song, my memory, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will scorn the critic's chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool!
THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part,
Our souls it cannot, shall not, sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,
And cling to it as close as ever.
But must we, must we part indeed?
Is all our dream of rapture over?
And does not Julia's bosom bleed
To leave so dear, so fond a lover?
Does she too mourn ?-Perhaps she may;
Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting:
But why is Julia's eye so gay,
If Julia's heart like mine is beating?
I oft have loved the brilliant glow
Of rapture in her blue eye streamingBut can the bosom bleed with woe, While joy is in the glances beaming?
No, no-Yet, love, I will not chide, Although your heart were fond of roving : Nor that, nor all the world beside,
Could keep your faithful boy from loving.
You'll soon be distant from his eye,
And, with you, all that's worth possessing.
Oh! then it will be sweet to die,
When life has lost its only blessing!
AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,
When surely there's nothing in nature more common?
She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me —
But could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;
Ánd Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,
When he thought you were only materials of pleasure,
And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;
But, oh! while he's blest, let him die on the minuteIf he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed,
SWEET seducer! blandly smiling;
Charming still, and still beguiling!
Oft I swore to love thee never,
Yet I love thee more than ever!
Why that little wanton blushing,
Glancing eye, and bosom flushing?
Flushing warm, and wily glancing-
All is lovely, all entrancing!
Turn away those lips of blisses-
I am poisoned by thy kisses!
Yet, again, ah! turn them to me:
Ruin's sweet, when they undo me!
Oh! be less, be less enchanting
Let some little grace be wanting;
Let my eyes, when I'm expiring,
Gaze awhile without admiring!
GROW to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
On which my soul's beloved swore
That there should come a time of bliss
When she would mock my hopes no more;
And fancy shall thy glow renew,
In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
And none shall steal thy holy dew
Till thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite.
Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal,
And let my love, my more than soul,
Come panting to this fevered breast ;
And while in every glance I drink
The rich o'erflowings of her mind,
Oh! let her all impassioned sink,
In sweet abandonment resigned
Blushing for all our struggles past,
And murmuring, 'I am thine at last!'
A NIGHT THOUGHT.
How oft a cloud, with envious veil,
Obscures yon bashful light,
Which seems so modestly to steal
Along the waste of night!
'Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs
Obscure with malice keen
Some timid heart, which only longs
To live and die unseen!
ELEGIAC STANZAS.
Sic juvat perire.
WHEN wearied wretches sink to sleep,
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!
Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
Where flowerets deck the green carth's breast? 'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest!
Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb,
None but the dews by twilight given !
Oh let not sighs disturb the gloom,
None but the whispering winds of Heaven!
'Good night! good night !'—and is it so ?
And must I from my Rosa go?
Oh, 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!
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!
WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.
THE wisest soul, by anguish torn,
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
And when the shining 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!
Oh, 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 rolled,
And tracked it through its path sublime;
So thou, fair planet, not unled,
Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;
Thy lover's shade, divinely wed,
Shall linger round thy wandering way.
Let other spirits range the sky,
And brighten in the solar gem;
I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,
Nor envy worlds of suns to them!
And oh if airy shapes may steal
To mingle with a mortal frame,
Then, then, my love !-but drop the veil !
Hide, hide from Heaven the unholy flame.
No!-when that heart shall cease to beat,
And when that breath at length is free;
Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,
And mingle to eternity.
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!
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