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It is the hour when from the boughs
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away,
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
There be none of Beauty's daughters
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
And the midnight moon is weaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay: 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
FARE THEE WELL.
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Would that breast were bared before thee
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though my many faults defaced me,
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When her little hands shall press thee,
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
March 17, 1816.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
Then when nature around me is smiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 'Tis of thee that I think-not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake;