That those who judge not too severely
Have said they loved such follies dearly!
Yet still, O book! the allusion stands;
For these were penned by female hands;
The rest,-alas! I own the truth,-
Have all been scribbled so uncouth,
That prudence, with a withering look,
Disdainful flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stained with blots of care;
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
Upon some fairer leaves have shown,
White as the snowings of that Heaven
By which those hours of peace were given.
But now no longer-such, oh! such
The blast of Disappointment's touch!
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear:
Blank, blank is every page with care,
Not e'en a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten ?-Never, never!
Then shut the book, O God, for ever!
OH! if your tears are given to care,
If real woe disturbs your peace,
Come to my bosom, weeping fair!
And I will bid your weeping cease.
But if with Fancy's visioned fears,
With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;
You look so lovely in your tears,
That I must bid you drop them still!
"Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.'-ST. JOHN, chap. viii.
O WOMAN! if by simple wile
Thy soul has strayed from honour's track,
'Tis mercy only can beguile,
By gentle ways, the wanderer back.
The stain that on thy virtue lies,
Washed by thy tears, may yet decay;
As clouds that sully morning skies
May all be wept in showers away.
Go, go-be innocent, and live
The tongues of men may wound thee sore;
But Heaven in pity can forgive,
And bids thee 'go, and sin no more!'
'AT night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
That foot that comes so soft at night!
And then, at night, how sweet to say
"Tis late, my love!' and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy too the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love, exchanged at night!
At night, what dear employ to trace,
In fancy, every glowing grace
That's hid by darkness from the sight!
And guess, by every broken sigh;
What tales of bliss the shrouded eye
Is telling from the soul at night!
'Moria pur quando vuol, non è bisogna mutar ni faccia ni voce per essèr un Angelo.'
DIE when you will, you need not wear
At heaven's court a form more fair
Than beauty here on earth has given;
Keep but the lovely looks we see-
The voice we hear and you will be
An angel ready-made for heaven!
FANNY, DEAREST.
OH! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine
Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But oh, the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear:
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,
Fanny, dearest-the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.
I NE'ER on that lip for a minute have gazed,
But a thousand temptations beset me,
And I've thought, as the dear little rubies you raised,
How delicious 'twould be if you'd let me !
Then be not so angry for what I have done,
Nor say that you've sworn to forget me;
They were buds of temptation too pcuting to shun,
And I thought that you could not but let me !
When your lip with a whisper came close to my check,
O think how bewitching it met me!
And, plain as the eye of a Venus could speak,
Your eye seemed to say-you would let me!
Then forgive the transgression, and bid me remain,
For in truth, if I go, you'll regret me;
Or, oh !-let me try the transgression again,
And I'll do all you wish-will you let me?
LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.
LIGHT Sounds the harp when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
But when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns ;
High flames the sword in his hand once more :
The clang of mingling arms
Is then the sound that charms,
And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;Then comes the Harp, when the combat is overWhen heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom-When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But, when the battle came,
The hero's eye breath'd flame :
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While, to his wak'ning ear,
No other sounds were dear
But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
And beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
'Twas a new feeling-something more Than we had dared to own before,
Which then we hid not-which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wish'd, in every half-breath'd sigh,
To speak, but did not-to speak, but did not.
She felt my lips' impassioned touch;
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not-and yet she chid not;
But whisper'd o'er my burning brow,
'Oh! do you doubt I love you now?'
Sweet soul! I did not-sweet soul! I did not.
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I press'd it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not-though gently bid not; Till-oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly err'd,
And yet who did not-and yet who did not..
Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc.
CEASE the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own,
Which all, alas! have falsely flown!
What hours, Catullus, once were thine,
How fairly seemed thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl, who smiled so rosy sweet-
The girl thou lovedst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again!
You met-your souls seemed all in one-
Sweet little sports were said and done-
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers indeed was nothing loth.
Such were the hours that once were thine;
But, ah! those hours no longer shine!
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so dear before;
And all Catullus now can do
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The heyday of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doomed to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight!
Fly, perjured girl!-but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites?
Oh! none. And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more!
SEE how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,
Yon little billow heaves its breast,
And foams and sparkles for awhile,
And murmuring then subsides to rest.
|