Fate with no heavier blow nor keener sting
May crush or goad us, when the genial power
Of friendship fails, and trifles of an hour
Rend each dear link that from our early spring
Held us in pleasant thrall. The cup of life
Bears naught so bitter as the drops of strife!



Alas! I may not meet thee in the crowd,
Unmoved-for in thy sweet, familiar face
The hallowed past hath left a startling trace:-
At once, with sudden impulse, fond and proud
My bosom heaves-unconsciously my feet
Approach thee-and my lips thy name repeat!


But oh! the deadly pang, the freezing chill,
When by the calm gaze of that altered eye
The spell is broken! Lady, if the sigh
That meets thine ear could say what feelings.
This troubled breast, or what my sad looks me
Methinks e'en thy stern coldness might relent.

I cannot think that all our mutual dreams
Were false as twilight shadows, nor believe
Thine heart could change, or words like thine dece
And still, as travellers for the sun's bright beams
Up-gaze in hope, though clouds may lour awhile,
I wait and watch for thy returning smile.



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OH! visit not

My couch of dreamless sleep,

When even thou shalt be forgot

By this so faithful breast;

But let the stranger watch my silent rest
With eyes that will not weep!


Oh! come not, Maid!

I crave no sigh from thee,

E'en when my mouldering frame is laid

Within the cold dull grave;

For the yew shall moan, and the night-wind rave, A fitting dirge for me!


Oh! weep not, Love!

While grief were agony,—

Wait 'till the balm of time remove

The fever of the brain,

And dear, though mournful dreams alone remain

Of me and misery!


Oh! then, fair Maid!

By twilight linger near

The rustling trees whose green boughs shade

My lonely place of rest;

And hallow thou the turf that wraps my breast With pity's purest tear!



My spirit revels deep in dreams to-day;
I dimly recognize the scenes around;
For though thy fairy form is far away,

And still thy father treads this foreign ground, He sees thee in thy native fields at play,

And hears thy light laugh's sweet familiar sound Merry and musical as birds in May!


This is thy natal morn—a date how dear!

How many tender memories mark the time! How oft thy prattle charmed a parent's ear,

And soothed his soul in this ungenial clime! How oft, when impious discontent was near,

Thy sinless smile hath kindled hopes sublime, And made the gloom of exile seem less drear!


Though now in weary loneliness I learn

What countless miseries broken ties may bring, Though vainly to deserted rooms I turn

For one domestic charm, I will not fling

A shade upon this hour, nor idly yearn

For pleasures passed on Time's too rapid wing; Nor pine at Fate's decrees, however stern.


Dear Child! to thee devoted is the day,

Thy brethren, (gentle twins,) and she who bears
A mother's sacred name, are proud and gay;

The small white English cottage sweetly wears
A festal look, while friends and kindred pay

Their tribute-praise, foretel thy future years,
And paint the brightness of thine onward way.


And when the cheerful feast is nearly o'er,

The wine-cup shall be filled, and thy dear name
Be fondly pledged each elder guest's before,

Regardful of the time; a pleasing shame

Shall flush thy cheek; and then the brilliant store
Of Birth-day gifts shall childhood's dreams inflame,
While aged hearts remember days of yore.


And yet, 'mid all this mirthfulness and pride,
The sudden tears shall dim thy mother's eye,
And thou, sweet boy, shalt sadly cast aside

Thy glittering gauds, and stand in silence by,
While prayers are breathed for him by fate denied
On England's happy shores to live or die,
Or cross again the severing waters wide.


But this blest day no cares shall shade my heart,
Save such as pass like clouds o'er summer skies;
As once thy presence bade despair depart,

So now before thy memory sorrow flies;

And almost momently around me start

Dear forms of home, that wake a sweet surprise, Like visions raised by some enchanter's art! Calcutta, Oct. 19, 1831.

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