VI.

Still, whilst I darkly sojourn here,
Spite of each vain endeavour,

Thy name, through many a future year,
Will be the knell, to my lonely ear,

Of bliss-gone by for ever!

VII.

Though thou hast wrapped me in a cloud, Nought now may e'er dispel,

In silentness my wrongs I'll shroud,

And love, reproach, pain, passion, crowd Into one word-FAREWELL!

VIII.

'Tis done-the task of soul is taught; At length I've burst the spell,

Which, round my heart so firmly wrought, Fettered each loftier, nobler thought;

And now,

FAREWELL-FAREWELL !

STANZAS

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE ENVE

LOPE TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

I.

PLEDGE of a love as pure and deep
As ever thrilled in mortal breast!
I would not, could I break thy sleep,

Recall thee from the couch of rest,
Where thou art now in peace reclining,
A stranger to the world's repining!

II.

No! Bright as was thy brief career,

In this wild waste of storm and gloom,

And much as I have wished thee here,

My soul's dark sorrows to illume,—
In loneliness I'd rather languish,
Than have thee here to share my anguish !

III.

Besides, would even Heaven allow

Thy advent to this earth again; That boon to thee were cruel now,

Since human ills- -a numerous train— Would cross thee in thy path of life, And stir thy young sweet thoughts to strife!

IV.

Yet looking on this sun-bright tress
Unlocks the source of dried-up tears;
And thoughts, intense and maddening, press
On my hot brain ;-though hopes or fears,
Since thou and thy sweet mother perished,
Have ne'er by me been felt or cherished.

V.

BLOSSOM OF LOVE! Yes, on my mind
Strange and unusual feelings rush;
The flood-gates of my heart unbind,

And bid its waters wildly gush,-
As gazing on these threads I see
The all that now remains of thee!

VI.

BLOSSOM OF LOVE! Farewell!-Farewell!

I go to join the noisy throng;

But, in my soul's deep-inmost cell,

Thoughts that to thine and thee belong, Will ever bloom as fresh and fair

As when they first were planted there!

VII.

And, oh, if tears of woe may nourish

The flowers of Memory in the breast; Then those in mine will surely flourish,

And each succeeding hour invest Their stems with charms unknown before,—

Till we three meet to part no more!

AUTUMN.

Now Winter from her throne is hurling

The deep-voiced matron of the year; And fitful gusts are wildly whirling

Her yellow hues on high; though here,

In

many a fold of beauty streaming,

It lingers still whilst from her eye The watery light of love is beaming As bright-but, oh, as transiently; Filling the bosom with a sadness, Though born of grief-allied to gladness.