DOES the harp of Rosa slumber?
Once it breathed the sweetest number!
Never does a wilder song
Steal the breezy lyre along,
When the wind, in odours dying,
Woos it with enamoured sighing.
Does the harp of Rosa cease?
Once it told a tale of peace
To her lover's throbbing breast-
Then he was divinely blest!
Ah! but Rosa loves no more,
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;
And her harp neglected lies;
And her boy forgotten sighs.
Silent harp-forgotten lover-
Rosa's love and song are over!
IN vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ;
Boobies have looked as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagyrite :
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peeped through windows dark and dull!
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man
Nor inward woman, from without
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt),
I think 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pretty short descriptions write,
In tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles.
There we might read of all--But stay-
As learned dialectics say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arranged those traits so fair,
Which speak the soul of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the label she'd have pinned on.
Within this vase there lies enshrined
The purest, brightest gem of mind!
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veiled,
Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.
Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words - at least suppose so-
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.
When I composed the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain,
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning;
And when I saw the void behind,
I filled it up with-froth and wind!
Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream,
A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :.
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit !
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare ;
Your heart was only mine, I once believed.
Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?
And must I say my hopes were all deceived?
Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined,
That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal:
Julia! 'tis pity, pity makes you kind;
You know I love, and you would seem to feel.
But shall I still go revel in those arms
On bliss in which affection takes no part? No, no! farewell! you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.
I SAW the peasant's hand unkind
From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seemed in very being twined;
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever.
Not so the widowed ivy shines:
Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
And scatters all its blooms away!
Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,
Till fate disturbed their tender ties:
Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,
While mine, deserted, droops and dies!
Sine me sit nulla Venus.-Sulpicia.
OUR hearts, my love, were doomed to be
The genuine twins of Sympathy:
They live with one sensation:
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heart-strings musically move,
And thrill with like vibration.
How often have I heard thee say,
Thy vital pulse shall cease to play
When mine no more is moving!
Since, now, to feel a joy alone
Were worse to thee than feeling none :
Such sympathy in loving!
SWEET lady look not thus again :
Those little pouting smiles recall
A maid remembered now with pain,
Who was my love, my life, my all!
Oh! while this heart delirious took
Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh!
Yes, I did love her-madly love
She was the sweetest, best deceiver ! And oft she swore she'd never rove! And I was destined to believe her!
Then, lady, do not wear the smile
Of her whose smile could thus betray: Alas! I think the lovely wile
Again might steal my heart away.
And when the spell that stole my mind
On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resigned
Will err again, and fly to thee!
WHEN Time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.
Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower
Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour
When thou alone wert fair!
Then talk no more of future gloom;
Our joys shall always last;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past.
Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
I drink to love and thee:
Thou never canst decay in soul,
Thou'lt still be young for me.
And as thy lips the tear drop chase,
Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace
Which sorrow leaves behind!
Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!
Our joys shall always last;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!
But mark, at thought of future years,
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,
They mingle with my bowl!
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
Our loving life shall fleet;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,
The draught will still be sweet!
Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!
Our joys shall always last;
For hope will brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!
Annulus ille viri.-Ovid. Amor. lib. ii. eleg. 15.
THE happy day at length arrived
When Rupert was to wed
The fairest maid in Saxony,
And take her to his bed.
As soon as morn was in the sky,
The feast and sports began;
The men admired the happy maid,
The maids the happy man.
In many a sweet device of mirth
The day was passed along;
And some the featly dance amused,
And some the dulcet song.
The younger maids with Isabel
Disported through the bowers,
And decked her robe, and crowned her
With motley bridal flowers.
The matrons all in rich attire,
Within the castle walls,
Sat listening to the choral strains
That echoed through the halls.
Young Rupert and his friends repaired
Unto a spacious court,
To strike the bounding tennis ball
In feat and manly sport.
The bridegroom on his finger had
The wedding-ring so bright,
Which was to grace the lily hand
Of Isabel that night.
And fearing he might break the gem,
Or lose it in the play,
He looked around the court, to see
Where he the ring might lay.
Now in the court a statue stood,
Which there full long had been ;
It was a heathen goddess, or
Perhaps a heathen queen.
1 I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story: I rather hope-though the manner of it leads me to doubt that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the speciosa miracula' of true poetic imagination.
Upon its marble finger then
He tried the ring to fit;
And, thinking it was safest there,
Thereon he fastened it.
And now the tennis sports went
Till they were wearied all,
And messengers announced to them
Their dinner in the hall.
Young Rupert for his wedding-ring
Unto the statue went;
But, oh! how was he shocked to find
The marble finger bent!
The hand was closed upon the ring
With firm and mighty clasp
In vain he tried, and tried, and tried,
He could not loose the grasp !
How sore surprised was Rupert's
mind,-
I'll come,' quoth he, at night again, As well his mind might be;
When none are here to see.'
He went unto the feast, and much
He thought upon his ring;
And much he wondered what could
So very strange a thing!
The feast was o'er, and to the court
He went without delay,
Resolved to break the marble hand,
And force the ring away!
But mark a stranger wonder still-
The ring was there no more;
Yet was the marble hand ungrasped,
And open as before!
He searched the base, and all the court,
And nothing could he find,
But to the castle did return
With sore bewildered mind
Within he found them all in mirth,
The night in dancing flew ;
The youth another ring procured,
And none the adventure knew.
I find, by a note in the manuscript, that he met with this story in a German author, Fromman upon Fascination, book iii. part vi. chap. 18. On consulting the work, I perceive that Fromman quotes it from Beluacensis, among many other stories equally diabolical and interesting.
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