Page images

Still, my belov'd ! still keep in mind,

However far remov'd from me, That there is one thou leav'st behind,

Whose heart respires for only thee !

Those babies that nestle so sly

Such thousands of arrows have got, That an oath, on the glance of an eye

Such as yours, may be off in a shot. Should I swear by the dew on your lip,

'Though each moment the treasure renews, If my constancy wishes to trip,

I may kiss off the oath when I choose. Or a sigh may disperse from that flow'r

Both the dew and the oath that are there ; And I'd make a new vow every hour,

To lose them so sweetly in air.

And though ungenial ties have bound

Thy fate unto another's care, That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,

Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no ! that heart is only mine

By ties all other ties above, For I have wed it at a shrine

Where we have had no priest but Love.

But clear up the heav'n of your brow,

Nor fancy my faith is a feather ;
On my heart I will pledge you my vow,

And they both must be broken together!



REMEMBER him thou leav'st behind,

Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, Close as the tend'rest links can bind

A heart as warm as heart can be.

WHEN Time, who steals our years away,

Shall steal our pleasures too,
The mem'ry of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.
Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flow'r

Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour

When thou alone wert fair.
Then talk no more of future gloom ;

Our joys shall always last ;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,

And Mem'ry gild the past.

Oh! I had long in freedom rov'd,

Though many seem'd my soul to share ; 'Twas passion when I thought I lov'd,

'Twas fancy when I thought them fair. Ev'n she, my muse's early theme,

Beguild me only while she warm'd ; 'Twas young desire that fed the dream,

And reason broke what passion form’d. But thou — ah ! better had it been

If I had still in freedom rov'd, If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,

For then I never should have lov'd.

Then all the pain which lovers feel

Had never to this heart been known; But then, the joys that lovers steal,

Should they have ever been my own ? Oh ! trust me, when I swear thee this,

Dearest ! the pain of loving thee, The very pain is sweeter bliss

Than passion's wildest ecstasy. That little cage I would not part,

In which my soul is prison'd now, For the most light and winged heart

That wantons on the passing vow.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,

I drink to Love and thee : Thou never canst decay in soul,

Thou'lt still be young for me. And as thy lips the tear-drop chase,

Which on my cheek they find,
So hope shall steal away the trace

That sorrow leaves behind.
Then fill the bowl away with gloom !

Our joys shall always last ;
For Hope shall brighten days to come,

And Mem'ry gild the past.
But mark, at thought of future years

When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,

They mingle with my bowl.
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,

Our loving life shall fleet;
Though tears may sometimes mingle there,

The draught will still be sweet.
Then fill the cup - away with gloom !

Our joys shall always last ;
For Hope will brighten days to come,

And Mem’ry gild the past.

eyes ?”


Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever ? SONG.

Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,

That darkness should cover that castle for ever, Have you not seen the timid tear,

Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave! Steal trembling from mine eye ? Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,

To the wizard she flew, saying, “ Tell me, oh, tell ! Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? And can you think my love is chill,

Shall my Reuben no more be restor'd to my Nor fix'd on you alone ? And can you rend, by doubting still,

• Yes, yes — when a spirit shall toll the great bell A heart so much your own ?

Of the mould'ring abbey, your Reuben shall

rise !" To you my soul's affections move, Devoutly, warmly true ;

Twice, thrice he repeated “ Your Reuben shall My life has been a task of love,

rise !" One long, long thought of you.

And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; If all your tender faith be o'er,

And wip'd, while she listen'd, the tears from her If still my truth you'll try ;

eyes, Alas, I know but one proof more —

And hop'd she might yet see her hero again. I'll bless your name, and die !

That hero could smile at the terrors of death,

When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,

In the depth of the billows soon found his reREUBEN AND ROSE.

pose. —

How strangely the order of destiny falls ! The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,

Not long in the waters the warrior lay, Had long been remember'd with awe and dismay;

And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray! For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls,

And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day. All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, Though the valleys were brighten’d by many a

There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank : beam,

Two days did she wander, and all the long night, Yet none could the woods of that castle illume ;

In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. And the lightning, which flash'd on the neighbouring stream,

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom !

And heard but the breathings of night in the air ;

Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, “Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse !”

And saw but the foam of the white billow there. Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave; “ It can never dispel,” said the wizard of verse,

And often as midnight its veil would undraw, "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the

As she look'd at the light of the moon in the wave !”


She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, And who was the bright star of chivalry then ? As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the Who could be but Reuben, the flow'r of the age?

beam. For Reuben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on And now the third night was begemming the sky; her page.

Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclin'd,

There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had When - hark !- 'twas the bell that came deep beat,

in the wind ! For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery She startled, and saw, through the glimmering feet,

shade, It walks o'er the flow'rs of the mountain and lawn. A form o'er the waters in majesty glide ;

[blocks in formation]

1 This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has as this that I saw at Vendôme in France, which they there left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was water enclosed within a piece of crystal. See Claudian. Epi- gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, gram. “de Crystallo cui aqua inerat.” Addison mentions a and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen." - Addison's curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds, “ It is such a rarity Remarks on several Parts of Italy.

[blocks in formation]


Why, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please th' elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought –
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-ey'd child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
“ He was, indeed, a tender soul
“ No critic law, no chill control,
* Should ever freeze, by timid art,
" The flowings of so fond a heart !”
Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hov'ring like a snow-wing’d dove,
Breath'd o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child, -
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my mem'ry, find
A shrine within the tender mind ;
And I will smile when critics chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour round some stagnant pool !

My fates had destin'd me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lur'd my pious steps to stay ;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require :
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed !
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion ;
And, ev'ry humbler altar past,
I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last !




WHEN, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish here Perchance some other friends to find,

But surely finding none so dear —

Haply the little simple page,

Which votive thus I've trac'd for thee, May now and then a look engage,

And steal one moment's thought for me.


Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

But, oh! in pity let not those

Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, Let not the eye that seldom flows

With feeling's tear, my song behold.


For, trust me, they who never melt

With pity, never melt with love ; And such will frown at all I've felt,

And all my loving lays reprove. But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,

Which rather loves to praise than blame, Should in my page an interest find,

And linger kindly on my name ; Tell him — or, oh! if, gentler still,

By female lips my name be blest : For, where do all affections thrill

So sweetly as in woman's breast ?

SWEET lady, look not thus again :

Those bright deluding smiles recall A maid remember'd now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all ! Oh! while this heart bewilder'd took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she smile, and lisp, and look,

And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh!

Yes, I did love her — wildly love –

She was her sex's best deceiver ! And oft she swore she'd never rove

And I was destin'd to believe her!

Tell her, that he whose loving themes

Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,

And bolder flights of fancy soar ; That Glory oft would claim the lay,

And Friendship oft his numbers move ; But whisper then, that, “ sooth to say,

His sweetest song was giv'n to Love!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of one whose smile could thus betray ; Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again could steal my heart away.
For, when those spells that charm'd my mind,

On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resign'd

Will err again, and fly to thee!



Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,

Our souls it cannot, shall not sever ; The heart will seek its kindred heart,

And cling to it as close as ever. But must we, must we part indeed ?

Is all our dream of rapture over ? And does not Julia's bosom bleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover ?


Does she too mourn? – Perhaps she may ;

Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting: But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating ?

I oft have lov'd that sunny glow

Of gladness in her blue eye gleaming But can the bosom bleed with woe,

While joy is in the glances beaming?

In vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face ;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite :
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peep'd through windows dark and dull.
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor (howsoe'er “learn'd Thebans ” doubt)
The inward woman, from without,
Methinks 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pithy, short descriptions write,
On tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttles,
Like labels upon physic-bottles ;
And where all men might read — but stay -
As dialectic sages say,
The argument most apt and ample
For common use is the example.

No, no! – Yet, love, I will not chide ;

Although your heart were fond of roving, Nor that, nor all the world beside

Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing!

« PreviousContinue »