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At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, In blushes flung the book away!
The index now alone remains,
Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some honey stains,
Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure!
And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by the memorial aided, Brings back the pages, now no more, And thinks of lines that long have faded !
I know not if this tale be true,
But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,
Since Love and you are near related!
I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.
I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Which fleets not with the breath; And life ne'er looked more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary !
As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Thy radiant genius shone,
If souls could always dwell above
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though fairest forms we see,
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,-
Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known: Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone!
Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first waked a new life through his frame, And his soul-like the wood that grows precious in burning— Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame!
THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES.
THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another, like waves of the deep,Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside, But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy,
And the short brilliant folly that flashes and dies!
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine!
ST. JEROME'S LOVE.
WHO is the maid my spirit seeks,
Through cold reproof and slander's blight? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
Is hers an eye of this world's light?
Its beam is kindled from above.
I chose not her, my soul's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine! No-heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broider'd veil; And she who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail.
Not so the faded form I prize
And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes
Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was beauty's dawn so bright,
So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away!
OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.
OFT, in the stilly night
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.'
When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garland's dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.