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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,

A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er 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.


“O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."

GRAY's Poemata.

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


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


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 fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 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, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd

scene ; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish

though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would

flow to me.


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

It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,

The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine ;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

To pain—it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me :

They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue me

'Tis of thee that I think not of them.


Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slander'd, thou never could'st shake,Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,

Nor, mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with oneIf my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me,

And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of thee.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,

Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd

Deserved to be dearest of all :
In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of thee.


(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto ii. Stanzas 25, 26.)

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold :
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ;

This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores un-


But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress !
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued;
This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude.

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