« AnteriorContinuar »
Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When her little hands shall press thee,
Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:
But 'tis done-all words are idle--
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
March 17, 1816.
ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF
IN THE APRIL OF 1816
A YEAR ago, you swore, fond she!
To love, to honour," and so forth: Such was the vow you pledged to me, And here's exactly what 'tis worth.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA
WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
In that deep midnight of the mind,
When fortune changed-and love fled far,
Which rose and set not to the last.
Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!
And when the cloud upon us came,
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,
Its boughs above a monument.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
The kind-and thee the most of all.
The winds might rend—the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still wouldst be 30 Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Earth is no desert-ev'n to me.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA
THOUGH the day of my destiny's over,
The faults which so many could find;
Then when nature around me is smiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
To pain-it shall not be its slave.
They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me; 'Tis of thee that I think-not of them.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake;
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
And more than I once could foresee,
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
July 24, 1816.
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
The first were nothing-had I still the last,
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,—