As man can never hope to know,
Or tongue may dare to tell.

My love, like her that gave it birth,

Has not its likeness on this earth.

I love not, O I cannot love

As other beings do—

Mine is the soul's idolatry,

As fierce as it is true;

A raging flame that will not die-
A frenzy of sweet agony !

They coldly tell me-Time will cure
This fever of my breast-

This fond delirium of the heart

This murderer of my rest.

They tell me Time's been ever found

To heal a slighted lover's wound.

But let the chilly cynics preach

To tamer souls than mine,
And bid the wretch who lightly loves
-Go linger and repine.

I scorn to be compassion's slave-
A soldier's freehold is-the grave.

Yes! death for me has little sting,

If all this world could give

To gladden life—has faithlessly
Condemn'd me not to live;

And yet, O heaven! 'tis hard to die

To perish-for one's constancy!

TO C. J. A.

"Breast to breast, and lip to lip, our souls

Shall flee together, and our latest sighs

Mingle in death!"

"I will live in thy eyes, die in thy lap,

And be buried in thy heart."

REMEMBEREST thou the gladsome time

When joy was in its spring,

And Cupid fann'd our early love
With warm and playful wing?

O then, though nurs'd in beauty's lap,
And free to rove at will,

Yet well thou knowest, even then,

Thou wert my darling still.

I've ever thought true-love should be

Like that enduring flame,

Which vestal sighs were wont to keep

Undyingly the same.

So like that constant fire, my love,

No earthly blight can chill, For after ten fast-fleeting years,

Thou art my darling still.

And when thy present roses shall
Of many winters speak,

I'll fold thee closer to my heart,
And kiss thy paler cheek.

Then smile upon thy faithful one,
Nor dream of any ill,

For while I live, my gentle Kate,

Thou❜lt be my darling still.

THE LOVE-LETTER.

TO GEORGIANA.

"For if you'll fly from love's connubial rights, 'Till one as charming as yourself invites,

None of our sex can ever bless your bed

Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed."

"O let me breathe one vow upon that lip, beside whose hue The morning rose would sicken and grow pale."

"Esperer aupres d'elle vant mieux que jouer avec tout autre."

Lady, if thou wilt be mine

Take, O take this slender ring—

Be it love, the golden shrine

Of our sweetest worshipping.

At the dim and vesper hour

When the sunny light has died,

Lady, seek the silent bower,

Love has curtain'd for my bride.