ON REVISITING HARROW. HERE once engaged the stranger's view, Young Friendship's record simply traced; Few were her words, but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut-but not erased, The characters were still so plain. That friendship once return'd, and gazedTill Memory hail'd the words again. Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more, That friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the record now have been ; But, ah! in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever. A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well: FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul ! No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control, Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom' In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see: For why should we mourn for the blest? WHEN WE TWO PARTED. Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow- Of what I feel now. In secret we met In silence I grieve, After long years, How should I greet thee?- TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. Few years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st What trifles oft the heart recall ; And those who once have loved the most, Too soon forget they loved at all. And such the change the heart displays, So frail is early friendship's reign, A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, Will view thy mind estranged again. If so, it never shall be mine To mourn the loss of such a heart, The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, Which made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing tide, So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide, Where stormy passions ever glow? It boots not that, together bred, Our childish days were days of joy: My spring of life has quickly fled; Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. And when we bid adieu to youth, Slaves to the specious world's control, We sigh a long farewell to truth; That world corrupts the noblest soul. Dares all things boldly but to lie; When Man himself is but a tool; We learn at length our faults to blend; And those, and those alone, may claim, The prostituted name of friend. Such is the common lot of man: Can we then scape from folly free? Nor be what all in turn must be? I care not when I quit the scene. Wilt shine awhile, and pass away: As glow-worms sparkle through the night, But dare not stand the test of day. Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet), E'en now thou'rt nightly seen to add One insect to the fluttering crowd; And still thy trifling heart is glad To join the vain and court the proud. There dost thou glide from fair to fair, Still simpering on with eager haste, As flies along the gay parterre, That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. But say, what nymph will prize the flame An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? For friendship every fool may share? Be something, anything, but-mean. LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED START not nor deem my spirit fled ; I lived, I loved, I quaff'd like thee: The drink of gods, than reptile's food. And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. That I should thus be happy too; I thought my jealous heart would break; I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride, Had quench'd at length my boyish flame: Nor knew till seated by thy side, My heart in all,-save hope,-the same Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look ; But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there; One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break. INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A WHEN Some proud son of man returns to earth, But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, gust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,-and here he lies. TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, But, wandering on through distant climes, And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady! will it be with me, And I must view thy charms no more; Escaping from temptation's snare; Without the wish of dwelling there. REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, And thou and I shall cease to be. Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, And then those pensive eyes would close, Veiling the azure orbs below; Then tell me not, remind me not, And senseless as the mouldering stone, THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT THERE was a time, I need not name, And from that hour, when first thy tongue None, none hath sunk so deep as this- But transient in thy breast alone. When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true, Remembrance of the days that were. Yes! my adored, but most unkind! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me, Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art, or e'er shalt be, Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM AND wilt thou weep when I am low? I would not give that bosom pain. My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And for a while my sorrows cease, To know thy heart hath felt for mine. O lady! blessed be that tear It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft as thine; But beauty's self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again ; Yet if they grieve thee, say not soI would not give that bosom pain. FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. FILL the goblet again! for I never before its core ; Let us drink!-who would not?-since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved!-who has not?-but what heart can declare, That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends !-who has not?-but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change; Thou grow'st old!-who does not?-but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to your idol below, We are jealous!-who's not?-thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find-do we not?-in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth. 'Tis done-and shivering in the gale But could I be what I have been, I look around, and cannot trace I ne'er shall find a resting-place; Of what we are, and what we've been, * Mrs Musters, formerly Mary Chaworth. |