« AnteriorContinuar »
Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile,
I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemned, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy Memory! Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine, I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.
If not the Goblet pass unquaffd,
It is not drain'd to banish care,
That brings a Lethe for despair ;
From all her troubled visions free, I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee. For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn? And who would then remain behind
To honour thine abandon'd Um? No, No—it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil; Though all the world forget beside,
'Tis meet that I remember still.
For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou:
A blessing never meant for me;
March 14th, 1812.
On a Cornelian Heart which was broken.
ILL-FATED heart! and can it be
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ! Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employed in vain ?
Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee, feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own.
[This poem and the following were written some years ago.]
To a Youthful Friend.
Few years have pass’d since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
Preserv'd our feelings long the same.
· But now, like me, too well thou know'st
What trifles oft the heart recall;
Too soon forget they lov'd at all.
And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship’s reign,
Will view thy mind estrang'd again.
If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature's fault not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art.
As rolls the ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide
Where stormy passions ever glow ?
6. It boots not, that together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy; My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceas'd to be a boy.
And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious world's controul, We sigh a long farewell to truth; • .
That world corrupts the noblest soul.