Imatges de pÓgina
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Last Love Poems.

TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.

THE serpent is shut out from paradise.

The wounded deer must seek the herb no more
In which its heart-cure lies:

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower
Like that from which its mate with feignèd sighs
Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.

Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food,Its medicine is tears,-its evil good.

Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Your looks, because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot
die:

The very comfort that they minister
I scarce can bear, yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,

Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.

When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been.
You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,— Of wearing on my brow the idle mask

Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.

Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot

With various flowers, and every one still said, "She loves me- -loves me not."

And if this meant a vision long since fled-If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thoughtIf it meant,—but I dread

To speak what you may know too well:

Still there was truth in the sad oracle.

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, When it no more would roam;

The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, And thus at length find rest.

Doubtless there is a place of peace

Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease.

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed

That I had resolution. One who had

Would ne'er have thus relieved

His heart with words, but what his judgment
bade

Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.
These verses are too sad

To send to you, but that I know,
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.

1821.

SONG.

RARELY, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night?

Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false ! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;

Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,

And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure.

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise and good;

Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love though he has wings,
And like light can flee,

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee—

Thou art love and life!

O come,

Make once more my heart thy home.

A LAMENT.

Oн, world! oh, life! oh, time!
On whose last steps I climb

Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more-O, never more!

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more-0, never more!

A DIRGE.

ROUGH wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches stain,
Deep caves and dreary main,

1821.

Wail, for the world's wrong!

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