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And still "Good night!' my Rosa say—
And puts his little bark to sea,
Consigns his simple heart to thee :
And sadly may the bark be tossed ;
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,
Have been paid by a moment of bliss ?
Which dwells on her memory yet?
From the warmth of the sun that has set ?
That smile which is loveliest then;
Thou shalt weep them again and again !
TO ROS A.
WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.
The wisest soul, by anguish torn,
Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;
The gem within will tarnish too.
But love's an essence of the soul,
Which sinks not with this chain of clay-
Of withering pain or pale decay.
Dissolves the spirit's mortal ties,
And makes it purer for the skies !
My soul shall leave this orb of men,
Shall be its best of blisses then !
Some airy genius, child of time,
And tracked it through its path sublime;
Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray ;
Shall linger round thy wandering way.
And brighten in the solar gem;
Nor envy worlds of suns to them !
To mingle with a mortal frame,
Hide, hide from Heaven the unholy flame.
And when that breath at length is free;
And mingle to eternity.
WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF A LADY'S
HERE is one leaf reserved for me,
LOVE AND MARRIAGE.
Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.
Secundus, Eleg. vii.
STILL the question I must parry,
Still a wayward truant prove : Where I love, I must not marry,
Where I marry, cannot love.
Were she fairest of creation,
With the least presuming mind; Learned without affectation ;
Not deceitful, yet refined ;
Wise enough, but never rigid ;
Gay, but not too lightly free ; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid;
Warm, yet satisfied with me :
Were she all this, ten times over,
All that Heaven to carth allows, I should be too much her lover
Ever to become her spouse.
Love will never bear enslaving;
Summer garments suit him best : Bliss itself is not worth having,
If we're by compulsion blest.
FRIEND of my soul ! this goblet sip,
'Twill chase that pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam,
"Twill steal away thy mind ; But, like affection's dream,
It leaves no sting behind !
Come, twine the wreath thy brows to shade;
These flowers were culled at noon;-
Its fragrance is not o'er;
The heart can bloom no more!
In lacrymas verterat omne merum.
Tib. lib. i. cieg. 5.
Thou hast sent me a flowery band,
And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; That the leaves were untouched by the hand,
And the purest of odours would yield.
And indeed it was fragrant and fair ;
But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air,
And would surely be sweeter to me!
Then take it, and let it entwine
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little floweret will shine
More rich than a gem to my sight,
Let the odorous gale of thy breath
Embalm it with many a sigh ; Nay, let it be withered to death
Beneath the warm noon of thine eye.
And instead of the dew that it bears,
The dew dropping fresh from the tree, On its leaves let me number the tears
That affection has stolen from thee!
So much ado about a trifle !
ON HER ASKING THE AUTHOR WHY SHE HAD SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.
I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,
And in thy breath his pinion dips,
And faints upon thy sighing lips :
That used to shade thy looks of light;
When other suns are sunk in night.
Has never throbbed with guilty sting ;
Where Slumber could repose his wing !
Which glow like roses in the sun,
Except for what her eyes have done !
Does Slumber from her eyelids rove ?
Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps 'tis love!
A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti. ---Past. Fid.
Seducing all and loving none ?
Which every coxcomb thinks his own?
And do you, like the dotard's fire,
Which, powerless of enjoying any,
By trifling impotent with many ?
And through a round of danglers run,
Could never wake to fecl for one ?
Tell me at once if this be true,
And I shall calm my jealous breast;
And share your simpers with the rest.