TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN.
"TWAS my last waking thought, how can be,
That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst endure? When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.
Methought he fronted me with peering look,
Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud, in game,
The loves and griefs therein, as from a book;
And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to blame.
In every heart (quoth he), since Adam's sin,
Two FOUNTS there are, of SUFFERING and of CHEER,
That to let forth, and this to keep within!
But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,
Of pleasure only will to all dispense;
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress
Choked or turn'd inward; but still issue thence
Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.
As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,
That gracious thing, made up of tears and light,
'Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below,
Stands smiling forth unmov'd, and freshly bright;
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.
Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,
On that benignant face,-whose look alone (The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine !) Has power to sooth all anguish but thine own—
A Beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing;
But with a silent charm compels the stern
And fost'ring Genius of the BITTER SPRING,
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.
Who then needs wonder if (no outlet found
In passion, spleen, or strife) the FOUNT OF PAIN,
O'erflowing, beats against its lovely mound,
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam,
On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile,
Had pass'd yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream.
Till audibly at length I cried, as though
Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,
O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise!
In every look a barbed arrow send;
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live;
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend,
Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give!"
THE FRIENDS OF BOYHOOD.
TALK not of years! 'twas yesterday
We chased the hoop together;
And for the plover's speckled egg,
We waded through the heather.
The green is gay, where gowans* grow;
'Tis Saturday,-Oh! come,
Hark! Hear ye not our mother's voice,
The earth? she calls us home.
Have we not found that fortune's chase
For glory, or for treasure;
Unlike the rolling circle's race
Was pastime, without pleasure.
But seize your glass-another time
We'll think of clouded days;
I'll give a toast,-fill up, my friend,
Here's "Boy's and merry plays!"
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