Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light Whether the object by reflected light And though thou notest from thy safe recess PHANTOM OR FACT? A DIALOGUE IN VERSE. AUTHOR. A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, A tender love so pure from earthly leaven But ah!-the change-It had not stirred, and yet- That weary, wandering, disavowing look! 'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame, And still, methought, I knew, it was the same! FRIEND. This riddling tale, to what does it belong? Or rather say at once, within what space Of time this wild disastrous change took place? AUTHOR. Call it a moment's work (and such it seems) PHANTOM. ALL look and likeness caught from earth, All accident of kin and birth, WORK WITHOUT HOPE. LINES COMPOSED 21ST OF FEBRUARY, 1827. ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing- Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, YOUTH AND AGE VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee— When I was young?-Ah, woful when! That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Naught cared this body for wind or weather Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like ; O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, Ere I was old! Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! Dew-drops are the gems of morning, When we are old: That only serves to make us grieve A DAY DREAM. MY eyes make pictures, when they are shut :— I see a fountain, large and fair, A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me, and Mary there. O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, Two dear names carved upon the tree! And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow; Our sister and our friend will both be here to morrow. 'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the crescent moon ! And now it is a dark warm night. The balmiest of the month of June.! A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. O ever-ever be thou blest! For dearly, Asra, love I thee! This brooding warmth across my breast, Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither, The shadows dance upon the wall, By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all! And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee: I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! |