When yon dark pile of ever-during rock
Shall cease to battle with the billowy shock;
When these things are—if things like these can be-
Then Desmond's heart shall cease to beat for thee!"
"Such is the rant of lovers," she replied,
yet did not smile, but sighed ; Then, while a sudden glow her cheek illumed,
She raised her dove-like eyes, and thus resumed · "Liken not Man the insect of a day –
The sport of time and chance-the reptile's prey--
To yon unchanging orb that dwells alone,
And looks on passing ages from his throne -
But to the light cloud floating o'er his face,
That melts in empty air, and leaves no trace;
Not to the rock, that rears its head sublime,
And mocks the vain attempts of mouldering time;
But to the wave that breaks upon the shore,
A moment murmurs, and is heard no more."
"Alas! 'tis true, sweet moralist," he said,
"On all below is imperfection shed;
Yet if by something changeless I must swear-
Perfection's self, and as perfection rare,
Then by thyself, fair creature, I will vow;
For what so perfect in mine eyes as thou?”
Nay, vow no more be ever as thou art,
And with the hand I give thee, take my heart!"
Soft to his lips that snowy hand he pressed,
And clasped the lovely donor to his breast.
There is a moment in the life of man
(Match it all other moments, if ye can!)
When his sad heart, in care so oft immersed,
Its pangs remitted, and its doom reversed,
the hard condition of its birth"
And beats to rapture, though it beats on earth;
"Tis when that throbbing heart, which long has owned Some worshipped idol on its altar throned,
Fled all its fears, and each fond doubt removed,
First owns its love, first feels itself beloved;
This is that moment in the life of man,
Felt only once it is but once it can!
For those that die in youth, the grief is deep,
As life had bliss beyond that peaceful sleep,
But deeper, keener, still, for those that die
When fortune's favoring cup is brimming high;
His doom the wiser ancients deemed the best
Who in the arms of rapture sunk to rest;
And thus, blest pair, should ye have ceased to live,
When the wide earth had nothing left to give.
And such events have been such erst the doom
That gave the rustic lovers to the tomb,
When the red angry lightning, glancing near,
Absorbed all other sentiments in fear.
All save that lasting love, whose quenchless flame
Nor death can daunt, nor selfish terror tame;
They, while their comrades fled in wild alarms,
Sought the sole refuge wished each other's arms;
By that fond deed each dearer life to save,
Or seek and share, the shelter of the grave!
Nor coldly deem the daring action rash,
Or aught but mercy in the death-fraught flash,
When Fate, in favor to a love like theirs
Fate, that fell power who heeds not human prayers, To leave one sad survivor kindly loth,
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and infirm
More longing, wav'ring, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are.
THERE is a strange perversity in man
That child of change- that creature of a span-
Which bids him slight the bliss already gained,
And sigh for others, not to be attained.
While Desmond deemed his Laura's heart denied,
"Twas her alone he sought-for her he sighed.
That heart once gained, his own grew careless soon;
First undervalued, then despised, the boon.
Yet slow these changes, and progressive all-
Not fiends themselves can in a moment fall.
Events occurred their union to delay;
On time's swift wing a twelvemonth passed away; And still young Laura's faithful bosom nursed
A flame as warm as it had felt at first..
But oh! what change of purpose and of thought
That one short year in Desmond's feelings wrought!
'Twas Julia's mirth alone could now inspire,
And Laura's pensive softness seemed to tire.
Too soon, by gradual steps, the lovely prize,
So fondly sought, grew worthless in his eyes.
Could this be Desmond-generous, noble, brave?
Thus can a single fault the soul enslave!
a whim,— The lustre of a thousand virtues dim!
Of all defects with which frail man is curst,
How oft a want of firmness proves the worst!
Hath it not ever been, from earliest times,
The fruitful source of follies and of crimes?
Vice may reform-but Indecision, still,
Wav'ring from right to wrong, from good to ill,
Tost by each changing breath of passion's gales,
The dupe of every idiot that assails-
Is hopeless of amendment ; — trust it not!
Its vows are air, breathed, but to be forgot.
Let love and friendship rear no altar there-
Who sow on such a soil shall reap despair!
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