Run wilder than these roving vines-I found
My hands were clasp'd together, and my spirit
Stole from my eyes with a dim sense of prayer,
Which had no words. I begg'd a gentle fortune
Upon the newly wedded-pray'd I not
For thee, Eustache?"
From the Improvisatrice and other Poems.-By L. E. L.
"Farewell!-we shall not meet again!
As we are parting now,
I must my beating heart restrain-
Must veil my burning brow!
Oh, I must coldly learn to hide
One thought, all else above-
Must call upon my woman's pride
To hide my woman's love!
Check dreams I never may avow;
Be free, be careless, cold as thou!
Oh! those are tears of bitterness,
Wrung from the breaking heart,
When two, blest in their tenderness,
Must learn to live-apart!
But what are they to that lone sigh,
That cold and fixed despair,
That weight of wasting agony
It must be mine to bear?
Methinks I should not thus repine,
If I had but one vow of thine.
I could forgive inconstancy,
To be one moment loved by thee!
With me the hope of life is gone,
The sun of joy is set;
One wish my soul still dwells upon—
The wish it could forget,
I would forget that look, that tone,
My heart hath all too dearly known.
But who could ever yet efface
From memory love's enduring trace?
All may revolt, all may complain-
But who is there may break the chain?
Farewell!-I shall not be to thee
More than a passing thought;
every time and place will be
With thy remembrance fraught!
The Warrior cross'd the ocean's foam
For the, stormy fields of war;
The Maid was left in a smiling home,
And a sunny land afar.
His voice was heard where javelin showers
Pour'd on the steel-clad line;
Her step was 'mid the summer flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.
His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stained his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of Heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.
Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by,
And again he crossed the seas;
But she had died as roses die
That perish with a breeze.
From New Monthly Magazine.
TO ANNA ON HER BIRTH DAY.
List to me, Anna, if I sing
A few wild notes, and but a few; Poor is the tribute which I bring, Though not despised by you: The natal day of her I love,
Might well indeed inspire to me,
Sweet thoughts and feelings, far above
The common calls of minstrelsy!
In the first dawning of a year,
Something there is, all gay and bright,
Its seasons and its days appear
Enwreathed in roses and delight!
HOPE-busy pleasing HOPE combines
A chaplet all of summer flowers,
And the fair flattering wreath entwines
Around the temples of its hours:
And past the fancy, as they stray,
The fairy troop trip bright and gay;
Laden with pleasure, free from care,
And lightsome as the summer air.
If such a train to-day have past,
My Anna's view, Oh may they be
Each one, and all, the first and last,
Made perfect in futurity!
And every coming hour appear
As fair and bright as once it seemed, When lighted up by HOPE, it beamed A ray of joyance here,
Till each when present, be confessed
Less fair in prospect, than possessed.
Yes, blessings on thee, here below,
And blessings from above;
And may thy passing seasons know
But happiness and love:
Blest be thy path, where'er it bends,
Thy going, thy return;
Blest be thy home, and blest thy friends,
Blest be thine opening morn;
And may thy setting evening be
All sweetness and serenity,
Till having passed from earth, in skies, Far brighter thou, my love, shalt rise Beauteous in immortality!
W. Williams, Printer,
13, Suffolk Place, Cambridge Heath, Hackney.
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