"Weep not, my love," I trembling said,
"Doubt not a constant heart like mine;
I ne'er can meet another maid,
Whose charms can fix this heart like thinc."
"Go then," she cried," but let your constant mind Oft think of her you leave in tears behind,
A maid, this last embrace my pledge shall be."
The anchor's weigh'd; farewell, farewell, remember me!"
FAIR Ellen like a lily grew,
Was beauty's fav'rite flow'r,
Till falsehood chang'd her lovely hue,
She wither'd in an hour.
Antonio in her virgin breast
First rais'd a tender sigh;
His wish obtain'd, the lover blest,
Then left the maid to die.
TO ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS THEM.
I HAVE been reading, tearfully and sadly,
The lines we read together long ago,
When our experience glided on so gladly,
We love to linger o'er poetic woe.
We both have changed: our souls at last are finding
Their destiny-in silence to endure;
And the strong ties, our best affection binding,
Are not the dreamlike ones our hearts once were.
We live no longer in a world elysian,
With life's deep sorrowing still a thing to test;
And we have laid aside-a vanished vision-
The hope once wildly treasured as our best,
Yet though the tie that once our thoughts united
Lies severed now, a bright but broken chain-
Though other love hath lavishly requited
That early one, so passionate and vain—
Still, as I read the lines we read together,
Now hallowed by our parting's bitter tears,
As mournfully my spirit questions, Whither
Have gone the sweet illusions of those years!
I close the book, such vain remembrance bringing
Of all that now 'twere wiser to forget:
Say, are your thoughts, like mine, still idly clinging:
To those old times of rapture and regret ?
THOU Conqueror's conqueror, mighty Love! to thee
Their crowns, their laurels, kings and heroes yield;
Lo at thy shrine great Antony bows the knee,
Disdains his victor wreath, and flies the field;
From woman's lips Alcides lists thy tone,
And grasps the inglorious distaff for his sword,
An eastern sceptre at thy feet is thrown,
A nation's worshipped idol owns thee lord; And well fair Noorjehan his throne became, When erst she ruled his empire in thy name.
The sorcerer Jarchas could to age restore
Youth's faded bloom or childhood's vanished glee;
Magician Love! canst thou not yet do more?
Is not the faithful heart kept young by thee?
But ne'er that traitor-bosom formed to stray,
Those perjured lips which twice thy vows have breathed, Can know the raptures of thy magic sway,
Or find the balsam in thy garland wreathed; Fancy or Folly may his breast have moved, But he who wanders never truly loved..
HAD we but met in life's delicious spring,
Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear,
Ere hope came back with worn and wounded wing,
To die upon the heart she could not cheer:
Ere I love's precious pearl had vainly lavished,
Pledging an idol deaf to my despair-
Ere one by one the buds and blooms were ravished
From life's rich garland by the clasp of care.
Ah, had we then but met! I dare not listen
To the wild whispers of my fancy now!
My full heart beats-my sad, drooped lashes glisten
I hear the music of thy boyhood's vow!
I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning,
I feel thy dear hand softly clasp my own;
Thy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning-
It is too much-but ah! the dream has flown!
How had I poured this passionate heart's devotion
In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast;
How had I hushed each sorrowful emotion,
Lulled by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest!
How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee,
When from thy lips the rare, scholastic lore
Fell on the soul that all but deified thee,
While at each pause, I childlike, prayed for more!
How had I watched the shadow, of each feeling
That moved thy soul, glance o'er that radiant face, Taming my wild heart" to that dear revealing,
And glorying in thy genius and thy grace:
Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding,
And I had now been less unworthy thee;
For I was generous, guileless, and confiding-
A frank enthusiast-buoyant, fresh, and free..
But now, my loftiest aspirations perished,
My holiest hopes-a jest for lips uncherished-
The tenderest yearnings of my soul profane-
A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain:
Checked by those ties that make my lightest sigh,
My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime:
How must I still my heart, and school my eye,
And count in vain the slow, dull steps of Time!
Wilt thou come back? Ah! what avails to ask thee,
Since Honour, Faith, forbid thee to return?.
Yet to forgetfulness I dare not task thee,
Lest thou too soon that easy lesson learn!
Ah, come not back, love! even through memory's ear
Thy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart;
Come not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear
While yet we may, let us for ever part!
LOVE me when the spring is here,
With its busy bird and bee;
When the air is soft and clear,
And the heart is full of glee;
When the leaves and buds are scen
Bursting from the naked bough,
Dearest, with a faith serene,
Wilt thou love me then as now?
When the queenly June is dressed
In her robes so fair and bright;
When the earth, most richly blessed,
Sleeps in soft and golden light;
When the sweetest songs are heard
In the forest, on the hill-
When thy soul, by these is stirred,
Dearest, wilt thou love me still?
When the harvest-moon looks out
On the fields of ripened grain;
When the merry reapers shout
While they glean the burdened plain;
When their labours o'er, they sit
Listening to the night-bird's lay,
May there o'er thy memory fit
Thoughts of one far, far away!
When the winter hunts the bird
From his leafy home and bower;
When the bee, no longer heard,
Bides the cold, ungenial hour;
When the blossoms rise no more
From the garden, field, and glen;
When our forest joys are o'er,
Dearest, wilt thou love me then?
Love for ever! 'tis the spring
Whence our choicest blessings flow!
Angel harps its praises sing,
Angel hearts its secrets know.
When thy feet are turned away
From the busy haunts of menWhen thy feet in Eden stray,
Dearest, wilt thou love me then?
OH! fragile and fair, as the delicate chalices,
Wrought with so rare and subtle a skill,
Bright relics, that tell of the pomp of those palaces,
Venice-the sea-goddess-glories in still.
Whose exquisite texture, transparent and slender,
A pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes!
Yet ah! if some false hand, profaning its splendour,
Dares but to taint it with poison-it breaks!
So when Love poured through thy pure heart is lightning,
On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke-
So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening,
Poisoned the treasure-it trembled and broke!
WHAT shall I ask for thee,
Beloved, when at the silent eve or golden morn
I seek the Eternal Throne on bended knee,
And to the God of Love my soul is borne,
Ascending through the angel-guarded air,
On the swift wings of Prayer?
What shall I ask? the bliss
Of earth's poor votaries? pleasures that must fade
As dew from summer blossoms? Oh! for this
Thy fresh young spirit, dear one, was not made:
Purer and holier must its blessings be-
I ask not this for thee....
For thee, fair child, for thee,
In thy fresh, budding girlhood, shall my prayer
Go up unceasing, that the witchery
Of earthly tones alluring may not snare
Thy heart from purer things; but God's own hand
Lead to the better land.
Ever shall Love for thee
Implore Heaven's best and holiest benison
Its perfect peace-that peace which can not be
The gift of Earth; for this when upward borne
My soul grows earnest, angel-lips of flame,
May echo thy sweet name.
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