'Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, Unwelcome insight! Yet there are While on that isthmus which commands God, who instructs the brutes to scent Whose wisdom fixed the scale MEMORY. A PEN-to register; a key— That winds through secret wards; Are well assigned to memory By allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be given A Pencil to her hand; That, softening objects, sometimes even Outstrips the heart's demand; 1830. That smoothes foregone distress, the lines And clothes in brighter hues; Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works That startle Conscience, as she lurks Within her lonely seat. O! that our lives, which flee so fast, In purity were such, That not an image of the past Should fear that pencil's touch! Retirement then might hourly look Age steal to his allotted nook With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 1823. THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. PART I. ENOUGH of rose-bud lips and eyes Of cheek that with carnation vies, And veins of violet hue; Earth wants not beauty that may scorn A likening to frail flowers; Yea, to the stars, if they were born Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred, Stepped one at dead of night, Whom such high beauty could not guard. From meditated blight; By stealth she passed, and fled as fast As doth the hunted fawn, Nor stopped, till in the dappling east Seven days she lurked in brake and field, At length in darkness travelling on, "To put your love to dangerous proof No answer did the Matron give, She led the Lady to a seat Beside the glimmering fire, Bathed duteously her way worn feet, Prevented each desire : The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed, And on that simple bed, Where she in childhood had reposed, Now rests her weary head. When she, whose couch had been the sod, While over her the Matron bent, Sleep sealed her eyes and stole Feeling from limbs with travel spent, And trouble from the soul. Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn, Have unto Heaven and You been paid: Have you forgot"—and here she smiled— "The babbling flatteries You lavished on me when a child Disporting round your knees? I was your lambkin, and your bird, "The blossom you so fondly praised Is come to bitter fruit; A mighty One upon me gazed; And must be hidden from his wrath: Will guide me in my forward path; "I cannot bring to utter woe Your proved fidelity." "Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so! For you we both would die." "Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned And cheek embrowned by art; Yet, being inwardly unstained, With courage will depart." "But whither would A poor Man's counsel take; The Holy Virgin gives to me A thought for your dear sake; PART II. THE dwelling of this faithful pair |