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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,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time

And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light

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
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!


I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on;

I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,-
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone!

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 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!
But pledge me the goblet—while Idleness weaves
Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see
One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!


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?
No,-wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, a light be there,

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

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;
The eyes that shone,

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.

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