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Fate with no heavier blow nor keener sting
Alas! I may not meet thee in the crowd,
But oh! the deadly pang, the freezing chill,
I cannot think that all our mutual dreams
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
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!
BIRTH-DAY STANZAS TO MY CHILD.
My spirit revels deep in dreams to-day;
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
The small white English cottage sweetly wears
Their tribute-praise, foretel thy future years,
And when the cheerful feast is nearly o'er,
The wine-cup shall be filled, and thy dear name
Regardful of the time; a pleasing shame
Shall flush thy cheek; and then the brilliant store
And yet, 'mid all this mirthfulness and pride,
Thy glittering gauds, and stand in silence by,
But this blest day no cares shall shade my heart,
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.