It is not aught this earth affords For, wand'ring through this 'vale of tears,' FAREWELL ADDRESS TO A SPANISH LADY. I HAVE loved in my time not a few, dear, The shrine were my heart was first offer'd, Say, don't you remember, my Spanish? A lexicon, syntax, and grammar, Adieu! ev'ry kiss I may steal, dear, Ev'ry smile that may fall to my share, MARY'S DANCING. CUPID, you're right; indeed 'twas madness, So pardon me, here's my concession- And well I'm paid; for there's a thrilling And though I've turn'd my eyes on story, And though I meant to scan the merits Like knights of old, each one was paying But her dancing!-if thought were fire, And words were flame,-alas, too cold; Far other words it would require To tell it as it should be told. Ah, vain my wish to raise the song,- Floating as if on wings divine, Of heav'nly race she seem'd to beOf the fond dream of life's sunshine She was the dear reality! Music was in her motion sweet, Her radiant form was beauty's line, Grace was attendant on her feet, And, Elegance,-ah, she was thine! I see her as she trips along, Her circling ringlets waving round; The Queen of Love she seems (among Her playing maids) with roses crown'd. A warmer glow upon her face Rises, and blooms upon her breast, Barely discern'd beneath the lace, Which by its flutt'ring is caress'd. But vain my wish to raise the song; Yet have I tuned my lyre full well, NEVER FORGET. NEVER forget the hour of our first meeting, Never forget. Never forget the joy of that revealment, When Love broke forth from friendship's frail concealment, Never forget. Never forget my heart's intense devotion, Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free- Never forget. Never forget the moment when we parted When from life's summer-cloud that bolt was hurled That drove us, scathed in soul and broken-hearted, Alone to wander through this desert world. Never forget. THE PAST. "So near-yet oh! how far."-Goethe's Helena. THICK darkness broodeth o'er the world: Reflect no gleam of orient light. E'en the wild Norland fires, that mocked, Borne from pale shadow-lands remote, Like the white pinioned Paraclete. Then faints into the silence drear, While from the hollow dark outgrows The phantom Past, pale gliding near. The visioned Past-so strangely fair! On its cold lip my kisses press, I loathe the purple light of day, Cold, sad, and spectral, by my side It breathes of love's ethereal bloom Of bridal memories long affied To the dread silence of the tomb. Sweet cloistered memories, that the heart Shuts close within its chalice cold, Faint perfumes that no more dispart From the bruised lily's floral fold. "My soul is weary of her life;" With fantasy-the noontide glare, And the cool morning, "fancy free," Nor wins from twilight thoughts away. Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream, I wander in pale dreams away, THE COUNTRY MAIDEN. I had rather have one kisse, Childe waters of thy mouth, Than I woulde have Cheshire and Lancashire bothe That lye by north and south.-Old Ballad. CAME to thee in workday dress And hair but plainly kempt, For life is not all holyday, From toil and care exempt; I met thee oft with glowing check- Mine eyes that drooped beneath thy glance To hide their sense of bliss, Let fall too oft the tears that tell Of secret tenderness. |