Imatges de pàgina
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SONG,

ON A FADED VIOLET.

THE odour from the flower is gone, Which like thy kisses breathed on me; The colour from the flower is flown, Which glowed of thee, and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm
With cold and silent rest.

I weep-my tears revive it not!

I sigh-it breathes no more on me;

Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.

LINES TO A CRITIC.

HONEY from silk-worms who can gather,
Or silk from the yellow bee?

The grass may grow in winter weather
As soon as hate in me.

Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

And men who rail like thee;

An equal passion to repay

They are not coy like me.

Or seek some slave of power and gold,
To be thy dear heart's mate;
Thy love will move that bigot cold,
Sooner than me, thy hate.

A passion like the one I prove
Cannot divided be;

I hate thy want of truth and love—
How should I then hate thee?

December, 1817.

GOOD NIGHT.

Good night? ah! no; the hour is ill
Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood,
Then it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good night.

TO-MORROW.

WHERE art thou, beloved, To-morrow?
Whom young and old and strong and weak,

Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,—

In thy place-ah! well-a-day!
We find the thing we fled-To-day.

DEATH.

THEY die-the dead return not-Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye-

They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover,
Which he so feebly called-they all are gone!
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain—
These tombs alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend-oh! weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain—

These tombs alone remain.

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