LINES TO A CRITIC. HONEY from silkworms who can gather, The grass may grow in winter weather Hate men who cant, and men who pray, An equal passion to repay They are not coy like me. Or seek some slave of power and gold, A passion like the one I prove I hate thy want of truth and love- LINES. THAT time is dead for ever, child, And stare aghast At the spectres wailing, pale, and ghast, The stream we gazed on then rolled by; But we yet stand In a lone land, Like tombs to mark the memory Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee сс ON F. G. HER voice did quiver as we parted, This world is all too wide for thee. POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818. ADVERTISEMENT TO ROSALIND AND HELEN, AND LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE NAPLES, Dec. 20, 1818. THE story of ROSALIND and HELEN is, undoubtedly, not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation; and if, by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awaken a certain ideal melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impressions, it will produce in the reader all that the writer experienced in the composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulse of the feelings which moulded the conception of the story; and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure, which only pretends to be regular, inasmuch as it corresponds with, and expresses, the irregularity of the imaginations which inspire it. I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in England will be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One, which I sent from Italy, was written after a day's excursion among those lovely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the introductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn, on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my excuse, that they were not erased at the request of a dear friend, with whom added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and who would have had more right than any one to complain, that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness. ROSALIND AND HELEN. SCENE.-The Shore of the Lake of Como HELEN. Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. Come, sit by me. I see thee stand None doth behold us now: the power If thou depart in scorn: oh! come And we are exiles. Talk with me Of that our land, whose wilds and floods. When morn did come, When evening fell upon our common home, But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, Is it a dream, or do I see And hear frail Helen? I would flee I share thy crime. I cannot choose Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness Let us sit on that grey stone, Till our mournful talk be done. HELEN. Alas! not there; I cannot bear Even here where now we meet. It stirs Less like our own. The ghost of peace And I will follow. ROSALIND. Thou lead, my sweet, HENRY. "Tis Fenici's seat Where you are going?-This is not the way Mama; it leads behind those trees that grow Close to the little river. HELEN. Yes; I know; I was bewildered. Kiss me, and be gay, HENRY. I do not know: But it might break any one's heart to see You and the lady cry so bitterly. HELEN. It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, The boy Lifted a sudden look upon his mother, Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with the glee And whispered in her car, "Bring home with you In silence then they took the way Pursuing still the path that wound The vast and knotted trees around, Through which slow shades were wandering, To a deep lawny dell they came, To a stone seat beside a spring, O'er which the columned wood did frame A roofless temple, like the fane Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, The overhanging deity. O'er this fair fountain hung the sky, Now spangled with rare stars. The snake, |