« AnteriorContinuar »
O give me the nectar !
O fill me the bowl!
Hebe! pour free!
The wine of the Immortals
Forbids me to die!
Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,
O humbly press that consecrated ground!
For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain !
And there his spirit most delights to rove: Young Edmund! famed for each harmonious strain,
And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.
Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume, His manhood blossomed : till the faithless pride
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.
But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue !
Where'er with wildered step she wandered pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,
Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale.
With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms,
of affluence she pined ; Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms
Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.
Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.
A SWORDED man whose trade is blood,
In grief, in anger, and in fear,
I seek the wealth you hold so dear!
The dazzling charm of outward form,
The power of gold, the pride of birth,
Usurp'd the place of inward worth.
Is not true Love of higher price
Than outward Form, though fair to see,
Or echo of proud ancestry ?
O! Asra, Asra! could'st thou see
Into the bottom of my heart,
As almost might supply desert!
(This separation is, alas !
Too great a punishment to bear;
0! take my life, or let me pass
That life, that happy life with her !)
The perils, erst with steadfast eye
Encounter’d, now I shrink to see-
Not half enough to part from Thee !*
ON TAKING LEAVE OF
To know, to esteem, to love—and then to part, Makes
up life's tale to many a feeling heart! O for some dear abiding-place of Love, O’er which my spirit, like the mother dove, Might brood with warming wings! O fair as kind, Were but one sisterhood with you combined, (Your very image they in shape and mind) Far rather would I sit in solitude, The forms of memory all my mental food, And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine !) And only dream of you (ah, dream and pine !) Than have the presence, and partake the pride, And shine in the eye of all the world beside !
THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL.
HE too has flitted from his secret nest,
Hope's last and dearest child without a name! Has fitted from me, like the warmthless flame, That makes false promise of a place of rest
* See Note at the end of the Volume.
To the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind;
"Yes! He hath flitted from me—with what aim,
Like a loose blossom on a gusty night
Ah! He is gone, and yet will not depart !
Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal ?
above Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love!
* Faerie Queen, B. 111, c. 2. 8. 19.