Thy heart was glad in maiden glee; Was faithless all the while : I hid the love that could not die- And days pass'd on-and thou didst prove Even in thy early years: And thou didst die-so fair and good- While thou wert living I did hide I'd not have shock'd thy modest pride But thou hast perish'd and the fire, It is no crime to speak my vow, Thou sleep'st beneath thy lowly stone He does not kneel where I have knelt; The anguish still and deep The painful thought of what has been- But I, as o'er the dark blue wave Unconsciously I ride, My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave, There is one voice that wails thee yet- L'ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TRANSLATION OF TASSO. J. H. WIFFEN. FARE thee well, soul of sweet Romance! farewell, Harp of the South! the stirring of whose strings Has given, by power of their melodious spell, Such pleasant speed to Time's else weary wings, That-rapt in spirit to the Delphic cell, 'Midst its green laurels and prophetic springs,The tuneful labours of past years now seem A brief indulgence-an enchanted dream. My pride at noon, my vision of the night, Are o'er, do I not well to droop and grieve? To what new region shall the Muse take flight, What pictures fashion, what fresh numbers weave, When all that else had charm'd must now appear Tame to the eye and tuneless to the ear? Much shall I miss thee when, in calm repose, With leaves my walk beneath th' o'erarching pines. Nor less when Spring, 'twixt shower and sunshine, throws Abroad the sweet breath of her eglantines, If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view, I sought to give thy foreign chords a tongue, Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew, When on thy cypress bough again thou'rt hung; But sometimes whisper of me to the few I love, the fond, the faithful, and the young, And those who reverence the wrong'd soul that plann'd Thy world of sound with archangelic hand. Hear how the strings, dear IDA, sound abroad Else shall I little prize th' indulgent praise Which some may lavish on a task so long; - Else shall I mourn, that e'er my early days Were given to feeling, solitude, and song; But thee no light capricious fancy sways, To doubt thy truth would he the heavens to Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell! COULDST THOU BUT KNOW. LADY CAROLINE LAMB. COULDST thou but know what 'tis to weep- The livelong night whilst others sleep, Thou wouldst not do what I have done. Couldst thou but know what 'tis to smile, A heart that knows more grief than guile, And, oh! if thou couldst think how drear, The world would to thine eyes appear, If thou, like me, to none wert dear, Thou wouldst not do what I have done. |