Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. EUTHANASIA. WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring No band of friends or heirs be there, But silent let me sink to Earth, With no officious mourners near; Yet Love, if Love in such an hour In her who lives and him who dies. 'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past, E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. But vain the wish - for Beauty still Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath, And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death. Then lonely be my latest hour, For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, "Ay, but to die, and go," alas! Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was, Ere born to life and living woe! Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, "Tis something better not to be. TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC SONG. I ENTER thy garden of roses, Each morning where Flora reposes, Oh, lovely! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée. But the loveliest garden grows hateful But when drunk to escape from thy malice, Too cruel! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save: Will naught to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave. As the chief who to combat advances Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, By pangs which a smile would dispel? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée! Where Flora all withered reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. ΤΟ WELL! thou art happy, and I feel Thy husband's blest — and 't will impart When late I saw thy favorite child, I thought my jealous heart would break, I kissed it, and repressed my sighs, Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art blest I'll not repine, But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. I deemed that time, I deemed that pride Had quenched 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, I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there. One only feeling could'st 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. |