Imatges de pÓgina
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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.

a

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 slept, and had a dream of heaven,

I woke-and felt the pangs of hell.

Remonstrance of True Love.

21

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.

TUR

To Miss LANDON, (L. E. L.)
'URN, lady, from the faithless flame

That mocks me, and usurps my name;
Nor feed it with the fragrant sighs,
Whose incense but for me should rise;
I must on earth unresting roam,
If souls like thine are not my home:
I do not fade the youthful bloom;
I send no victims to the tomb;
No eyes by me forget to sleep,
Or learn in bitterness to weep :
The hearts that love of mine repeat,
And only at my bidding beat,
Their fate from him they love receive,
And only for his sorrows grieve.
No fears their tranquil thoughts molest,
No pangs assail, if he be bless'd ;
And to the hearts I deign to teach,
The darkest woes can never reach;
No maddening grief that spurns control,
No torrent that o'erwhelms the soul;
I only burn on Virtue's shrine,
And kindle at her light divine:
Not death himself can take from me
All power to give felicity;

Since only those inspire my glow,
We cannot mourn with hopeless woe;
Those Faith may see, Life's warfare done,
On happier shores, with guerdon won.

Epitaph.

BY GUY PENSEVAL.

a

HERE in a little cave,
The prettiest nook of this most grassy vale,
All amid lilies pale,

That turn
Their heads into my little vault and mourn-

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

Doth weep,

Still questioning the air, “Why doth she sleep,

The girl in this cold spot ?"

Even the very winds
Come to my cave and sigh: they often bring

Rose leaves upon their wing

To strew
O'er my earth; and leaves of violet blue,

In sooth, leaves of all kinds.

A Sketch.

23

Fresh is my mossy bed :
The frequent pity of the rock falls here,

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,
That holds mine epitaph upon its cheek of pearl;

“Here lies a simple girl,

Who died
Like a pale flower nipp'd in its sweet spring tide

Ere it had bloom'd.”—No more.

A Sketch.

“ And what's her history? A blank, my lord.”

-Twelfth Night.

YES

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.
'Twas sadness she was dying of-deep-deep-
For which, on this earth, grew no healing balm.
And they had brought her from her ruder clime
To that sweet spot, where ever cloudless skies,
Pure gales, and smiling scenes, their influence shed;
But not for her this influence—she was then
“Past hope-past cure.”

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;
And she would dwell for hours on the rich tones
She knew so well to draw forth from her lute,
As in the stillness of the night she loved
To mingle with them her soft voice, when all
But ceaseless, life-consuming sorrow slept.
And at those hours how often used I wake
From my light sleep, and to the casement steal;
Then, as the moonbeam glitter'd on the Rhone,
The music of that voice and lute arose
In sighs of fragrance, and across the wave
Rung in strange sounds of harmony, as though
Some Spirit of Heaven his midnight hymn breathed

there,
All on his angel watch as lone he linger'd.
I do remember it well—though long, long past;
And whether it was young imagination,
Or the enchantment of the scene and time,
Such strains as those I never after heard.

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