Imatges de pàgina
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TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.

I.

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,

II.

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.

III.

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Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.

IV.

When I return to my cold home, you ask

Why I am not as I have ever been.

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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.

V.

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

With various flowers, and every one still said,

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And if this meant a vision long since fled

If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought-
If it meant, but I dread

To speak what you may know too well:

Still there was truth in the sad oracle.

VI.

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.

VII.

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed

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That I had resolution. One who had

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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.

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THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT.

SONG.

“A WIDOW bird saté mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough;

The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

"There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground,

And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound."

1821.

THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT.

I.

"SLEEP, sleep on! forget thy pain;
My hand is on thy brow,

My spirit on thy brain,

My pity on thy heart, poor friend;
And from my fingers flow

The powers of life, and like a sign,

Seal thee from thine hour of woe,

And brood on thee, but may not blend
With thine.

II.

"Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not;

But when I think that he

Who made and makes my lot

As full of flowers as thine of weeds,
Might have been lost like thee,
And that a hand which was not mine

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Feelings which died in youth's brief morn ; 25 And forget me, for I can never

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"The spell is done. How feel you now?" "Better Quite well," replied

The sleeper. "What would do

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You good when suffering and awake?
What cure your head and side?
"What would cure, that would kill me, Jane:

And as I must on earth abide

Awhile, yet tempt me not to break

My chain.”

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LINES.

I.

WHEN the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

II.

As music and splendour

Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute,

No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

III.

When hearts have once mingled Love first leaves the well-built nest,

The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possessed.
O, Love! who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home and your bier?

IV.

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high:

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