"Tis silent all!-but on my ear A voice that now might well be still. Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. December 6, 1811. ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. ONE struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee, Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below, What future grief can touch me more? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring! That smiles with all, and weeps with none. Though gay companious o'er the bowl On many a lone and lovely night It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "Tis comfort still," I faintly said, "That Thyrza cannot know my pains: My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days, Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! EUTHANASIA. WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion may thy languid wing Wave gently o'er my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be there, But silent let me sink to earth, With no officious mourners near; I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a tear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power In her who lives and him who dies. "Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past, E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. But vain the wish-for Beauty still Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death. Then lonely be my latest hour, Without regret, without a groan; "Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! Where all have gone, and all must go! Ere born to life and living woe. Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR. "Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse !" AND thou art dead, as young and fair, As aught of mortal birth; And form so soft, and charms so rare, Though Earth received them in her bed, And o'er the spot the crowd In carelessness or mirth, may tread There is an eye which could not brook A moment on that grave to look. I will not ask where thou liest low, Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow, It is enough for me to prove That what I loved, and long must love, Like common earth can rot; To me there needs no stone to tell, "Tis Nothing that I loved so well. Yet did I love thee to the last Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now. The love where Death has set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, The silence of that dreamless sleep envy now too much to weep; That all those charms have pass'd away; The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd I know not if I could have borne The night that follow'd such a morn As once I wept, if I could weep, To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, Yet how much less it were to gain, The all of thine that cannot die And more thy buried love endears February, 1812. IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN. IF sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fade, The semblance of thy gentle shade: Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile I waste one thought I owe to thee, Nor deem that memory less dear, If not the goblet pass unquaff'd, From all her troubled visions free, For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, For well I know, that such had been A blessing never meant for me; March 14, 1812. |