Retards, but never counts the hour. But could not add a night to woe; That beam hath sunk; and now thou art One scene even thou canst not deform; When future wanderers bear the storm Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone! My curdling blood, my maddening brain, Pour me the poison; fear not thou! My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, A SONG. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE- 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou SONG. AH! Love was never yet without Without one friend to hear my woe, Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net, A bird of free and careless wing Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, My light of life! ah, tell me why Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: grievest, Too well thou lovest-too soon thou leavest. The wholly false the heart despises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow We scarce our fancy can forgive, What must they feel whom no false vision, As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming! ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE?" THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah why And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'll linger long in silent woe; But live until I cease to be. LINES Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. When thou hadst loved without a crime, A theme to crowds that knew them not, = And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined A model in thy memory. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; SONNET. TO GENEVRA. But there are breasts that bleed with thee THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory, Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 3 While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. Alas! for them, though not for thee, Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. TO A LADY WEEPING. WEEP, daughter of a royal line, Weep for thy tears are Virtue's tears- FROM THE TURKISH. THE chain I gave was fair to view, These gifts were charm'd by secret spell That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; Let him, who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp. hair, And the wan lustre of thy features- Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, but I know thy blessed bosom fraught That I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) -- nor And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush My heart would wish away that ruder I worship more, but cannot love thee less. INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND-DOG. WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Degraded mass of animated dust! Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, arise, I never knew but one, and here he lies. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. FAREWELL. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!- Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My son nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain— I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? WHEN We two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my browIt felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THERE be none of Beauty's daughters Is thy sweet voice to me: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er thee deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, STANZAS FOR MUSIC. O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros THERE's not a joy the world can give like When the glow of early thought declines Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fount ain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. FARE thee well! and if for ever, 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; Than the wail above the dead; When our child's first accents flow, Though his care she must forego? With a pulse yet true to me. |