It is not aught this earth affords
Can pleasure yield to me:
For, wand'ring through this 'vale of tears,'
My thoughts will dwell on thee !
FAREWELL ADDRESS TO A SPANISH LADY.
I HAVE loved in my time not a few, dear,
And still hope to love a few more;
But yet there was something in you, dear,
I ne'er met in woman before.
The shrine were my heart was first offer'd,
The rock on whose bosom it split,
May claim it, as there it was proffer'd;
But you stole it dear, every bit.
Say, don't you remember, my Spanish?
Your love-laughing eye when I spoke,
From my memory never can vanish;
Its glance ev'ry mystery broke;
And, whenever I happen'd to stammer,
Such kisses and smiles would descend,-
A lexicon, syntax, and grammar,
I could not but well comprehend.
Adieu! ev'ry kiss I may steal, dear,
Ev'ry smile that may fall to my share,
Ev'ry kind hint my bosom may feel, dear,
Shall not deaden your influence there.
A something shall sweetly remain, dear,
Which I swear shall be nothing of pain,
A something I cannot explain, dear,
To remind me of you, love, and Spain!
MARY'S DANCING.
CUPID, you're right; indeed 'twas madness,
And nothing less, to think to see
Dear Mary's eyes beaming with gladness,
And not to love their witchery.
So pardon me, here's my concession-
You're not in fault: too well I know
Her eyes and lips had safe possession,
Eyes of thy darts, lips of thy bow.
And well I'm paid; for there's a thrilling
Painfully pleasing in my soul;
Alike each gay, each sad thought filling,
It finds employment for the whole.
And though I've turn'd my eyes on story,
Intent upon the Greeks (once learned
In polish'd words, and martial glory),
Alas, 'twas but my eyes I turn'd;
And though I meant to scan the merits
Of each firm chief who battle waged,
My thoughts were (like old Owen's spirits)
Down in the spacious deep engaged!
Like knights of old, each one was paying
Due homage to her hair-her eyes-
And that soft charm which ever playing
Around her sacred person flies.
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,-
Milton, thy lyre alone could sing
Her dancing-thy touch alone prolong,
And o'er again each rapture bring.
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;
It coldly flows, though warm'd by love;
Too close the varied figures throng,
And o'er enraptur'd memory move.
Yet have I tuned my lyre full well,
If I have gain'd one smiling ray;
But ah, the honest truth to tell,
A timid kiss I'd have my pay.
NEVER forget the hour of our first meeting,
When, 'mid the sounds of revelry and song,
Only thy soul could know that mine was greeting,
Its idol, wished for, waited for, so long.
Never forget the joy of that revealment,
Centring an age of bliss in one sweet hour,
When Love broke forth from friendship's frail concealment,
And stood confest to us in godlike power:
Never forget my heart's intense devotion,
Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free-
Its golden hopes, whelmed in that boundless ocean,
Which merged all wishes, all desires, save thee:
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.
"So near-yet oh! how far."-Goethe's Helena.
THICK darkness broodeth o'er the world:
The raven pinions of the Night
Close on her silent bosom furled,
Reflect no gleam of orient light.
E'en the wild Norland fires, that mocked,
The faint bloom of the eastern sky,
Now leave me, in close darkness locked,
To night's weir'd realm of fantasy.
Borne from pale shadow-lands remote,
A Morphean music, wildly sweet,
Seems on the starless gloom to float
Like the white pinioned Paraclete.
Softly into iny dream it flows,
Then faints into the silence drear, While from the hollow dark outgrows The phantom Past, pale gliding near.
The visioned Past-so strangely fair!
So veiled in shadowy, soft regrets,
So steeped in sadness, like the air
That lingers when the day-star sets!
Ah! could I fold it to my heart,
On its cold lip my kisses press,
This waste of aching life impart
To win it back from nothingness!
I loathe the purple light of day,
And shun the morning's golden star,
Beside that shadowy form to stray
For ever near, yet oh how far!
Thin as a cloud of summer even,
All beauty from my gaze it bars;
Shuts out the silver cope of heaven,
And glooms athwart the dying stars.
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;"
My heart sinks with a low despair;
The solemn, starlit hours are rife
With fantasy-the noontide glare,
And the cool morning, "fancy free,"
Are false with shadows, for the day
Brings no blithe sense of verity,
Nor wins from twilight thoughts away.
Oh, bathe me in the Lethean stream,
And feed me on the lotus flowers;
Shut out this false, bewildering gleam,
The dreamlight of departed hours!
The Future can no charm confer,
My heart's deep solitudes to break-
No angel's foot again shall stir
The waters of that silent lake.
I wander in pale dreams away,
And shun the morning's golden star,
To follow still that failing ray
For ever near, yet oh how far!
Then bathe me in the Lethean stream,
And feed me on the lotus flowers;
Nor leave one late and lingering beam,
One memory of departed hours!
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-
Thus love its tale will tell;
Though oft its after paleness told
Of hidden grief as well.
Mine eyes that drooped beneath thy glance
To hide their sense of bliss,
Let fall too oft the tears that tell
Of secret tenderness.
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