When future wanderers bear the storm Which we shall sleep too sound to heed; And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone! XXV. Translation of a Romaic Love Song. 1. AH! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 2. Without one friend to hear my woe, I faint, I die beneath the blow. That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 3. Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net, Which Love around your haunts hath set; Or circled by his fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 4. A bird of free and careless wing Was I, through many a smiling spring; I burn, and feebly flutter there. 5. Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel, nor pity pain;— The cold repulse-the look askance The lightning of Love's angry glance. 6. In flattering dreams I deemed thee mine; Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; Like melting wax, or withering flower, I feel my passion, and thy power. 7. My light of life! ah, tell me why That pouting lip, and alter'd eye? My bird of love! my beauteous mate! And art thou chang'd, and canst thou hate? 8. Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: What wretch with me could barter woe? My bird! relent: one note would give A charm, to bid thy lover live. 9. My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, In silent anguish I sustain; And still thy heart, without partaking One pang, exults-while mine is breaking. 10. Pour me the poison; fear not thou! Thou canst not murder more than now: I've lived to curse my natal day, And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 11. My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, That joy is harbinger of woe. XXVI. A Song. 1. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. 2. The wholly false the heart despises, And spurns deceiver and deceit; But her who not a thought disguises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet, When she can change who lov'd so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. 3. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow To leave the waking soul more lonely, 4. What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition, As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming! |