WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE PRESENT WAR.
WHERE is now the smile, that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brighten'd
Honor's eye and pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath, we braided
For our weary warrior-men?
Is the faithless olive faded,
Must the bay be pluck'd again?
Passing hour of sunny weather
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wander'd through the blessed isle.
And the eyes of peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.
Is the hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet Waft her from her warlike lover To the desart's still retreat? Fare you well! with sighs we banish Nymph so fair and guest so bright; Yet the smile, with which you vanish, Leaves behind a soothing light!
Soothing light! that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguine way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding hope's consoling ray!
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true,
While around him myriads perish,
Glory still will sigh for you!
To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to fancy's power,
When her soft magic fills the mind
With friends and joys we've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcom'd with a tear!
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remember'd oft and well
By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguil'd,
Can proudly still aspire to know
The feeling soul's divinest glow!
If thus to live in every part
Of a lone weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ
Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it, MARY! oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
When passion doth not first betray
And tinge the thought upon its way!
In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,
The business of my life shall be,
For ever, to remember thee!
And though that heart be dead to mine,
Since love is life and wakes not thine,
I'll take thy image, as the form
Of something I should long to warm,
Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is lovely still!
I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,
The bright, cold burthen of my way!
To keep the semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its glowing tomb,
And love shall lend his sweetest care,
With memory to embalm it there!
TAKE back the sigh, thy lips of art
In passion's moment breath'd to me;
Yet, no-it must not, will not part,
'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,
And has become too pure for thee!
Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
With all the warmth of truth imprest;
Yet, no-the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,
Or bloom to make a rival blest!
Take back the vows that, night and day, My heart receiv'd, I thought, from thine; Yet, no-allow them still to stay,
They might some other heart betray,
As sweetly as they've ruin'd mine!
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