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They do but mock us-giving scope
To joys, from which we wake and part; And then are lost the hues of hope,
The rainbow of the clouded heart.
They are the spirits of the past,
That haunt the chambers of the mind; Recalling thoughts too sweet to last,
And leaving blank despair behind, They are like trees from stranger bowers,
Transplanted trees that take no root ; Young buds, that never come to flowers ;
Frail blossoms, that ne'er turn to fruit.
They are like wily fiends, who bring
The nectar we might joy to sip, And yell in triumph as they fling
The goblet from our fervid lip. They are like ocean's faithless calm,
That with a breath is roused to strife, Or hollow friendship's proffer'd balm,
Polluting all the springs of life.
I thought we met at silent night,
And roam'd, as we were wont to roam, And pictured with a fond delight,
The pleasures of our future home : That home, our hearts may never share,
'Tis lost to both for ever now; The tree of hope lies wither'd--bare,
Without a blossom, leaf, or bough.
To words-vain words—no power is given
The torments of my soul to tell ;
I woke-and felt the pangs of hell.
Remonstrance of True Love.
Yet, I would not forget thee-no!
Though thou hast wither'd hope in me ;-Nor for a world of joys forego
The one sweet joy of loving thee.
Kemonstrance of True Love.
To Miss LANDON, (L. E. L.)
That mocks me, and usurps my name;
Since only those inspire my glow,
BY GUY PENSEVAL.
HERE in a little cave,
Stranger, I have made my grave.
I am not all forgot, A small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow,
And o'er me a green willow
Still questioning the air, “Why doth she sleep,
The girl in this cold spot ?"
Even the very winds
Rose leaves upon their wing
In sooth, leaves of all kinds.
Fresh is my mossy bed :
A sweet, cold, silent tear;
I've heard, Sometime, a wild and melancholy bird
Warble at my grave-head.
Read this small tablet o'er,
“Here lies a simple girl,
Ere it had bloom'd.”—No more.
“ And what's her history? A blank, my lord.”
ES-I remember well how beautiful
I used to think her, as she lay in slumber, In the cool evening hour, upon her couch, Before the open lattice, which the vines Half veil'd with drooping wreaths. How like an angel She look'd-with those soft gloomy ringlets, And slight-arch'd brow, and cheek of ivory, Tinged with a blush of rose, bright, delicate As that which paints the unfolded apple-blossom.
And yet at times what heavy sighs she breathed In that so beautiful sleep, and from her eyelids
Have wanderd tears, like morning dew on roses.
They said her heart was broken-but, a child, I knew not then the meaning of that speechYet never word, nor murmur of regret Linger'd upon that gentle lip. The spirit Was wean’d from this world, and it look'd on high In humble faith. The grave no terrors had For one to whom existence had no charms.
Music alone still held its witching o'er her;