Have you not seen the timid tear,Steal trembling from mine eye?Have you not marked the flush of fear,Or caught the murmured sigh?And can you think my love is chill,Nor fixt on you alone?And can you rend, by doubting still,A heart so much your own?
To you my soul's affections move,Devoutly, warmly true;My life has been a task of love,One long, long thought of you.If all your tender faith be o'er,If still my truth you'll try;Alas,Iknow butoneproof more—I'll bless your name, and die!
The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's wallsHad long been remembered with awe and dismay;For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls,And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day.
Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam,Yet none could the woods of that castle illume;And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring streamFlew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!
"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!"Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;—"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse,"Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"
And who was the bright star of chivalry then?Whocouldbe but Reuben, the flower of the age?For Reuben was first in the combat of men,Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.
For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat,For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn,When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet,It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.
Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever?Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave,That darkness should cover that castle forever,Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!
To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell?Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?""Yes, yes—when a spirit shall toll the great bellOf the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"
Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!"And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain;And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes.And hoped she might yet see her hero again.
That hero could smite at the terrors of death,When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose;To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath,In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.—
How strangely the order of destiny falls!Not long in the waters the warrior lay,When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!
All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:Two days did she wander, and all the long night,In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.
Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,And heard but the breathings of night in the air;Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,And saw but the foam of the white billow there.
And often as midnight its veil would undraw,As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream,She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw,As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.
And now the third night was begemming the sky;Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined,There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye,When—hark!—'twas the bell that came deep in the wind!
She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed,And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.
Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?—Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam;'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold,And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!
Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thoughtFrom the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor!Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught,And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!
'Twas a new feeling—something moreThan we had dared to own before.Which then we hid not;We saw it in each other's eye,And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,To speak, but did not.
She felt my lips' impassioned touch—'Twas the first time I dared so much,And yet she chid not;But whispered o'er my burning brow,"Oh! do you doubt I love you now?"Sweet soul! I did not.
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,I prest it closer, closer still,Though gently bid not;Till—oh! the world hath seldom heardOf lovers, who so nearly erred,And yet, who did not.
That wrinkle, when first I espied it,At once put my heart out of pain;Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,Disturbed my ideas again.
Thou art just in the twilight at present,When woman's declension begins;When, fading from all that is pleasant,She bids a good night to her sins.
Yet thou still art so lovely to me,I would sooner, my exquisite mother!Repose in the sunset of thee,Than bask in the noon of another.
Is not thy mind a gentle mind?Is not that heart a heart refined?Hast thou not every gentle grace,We love in woman's mind and face?And, oh! artthoua shrine for SinTo hold her hateful worship in?
No, no, be happy—dry that tear—Though some thy heart hath harbored near,May now repay its love with blame;Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;Though all the world look cold upon thee,Yet shall thy pureness keep thee stillUnharmed by that surrounding chill;Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1]Floating, while all was frozen round,—Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be,Safe in thy own sweet purity.
[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendöme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen".
—in lachrymas verterat omne merum.TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.
Press the grape, and let it pourAround the board its purple shower:And, while the drops my goblet steep,I'll think in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,I'll taste the luxury of woe.
When I loved you, I can't but allowI had many an exquisite minute;But the scorn that I feel for you nowHath even more luxury in it.
Thus, whether we're on or we're off,Some witchery seems to await you;To love you was pleasant enough,And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!
Why, let the stingless critic chideWith all that fume of vacant prideWhich mantles o'er the pendant fool,Like vapor on a stagnant pool.Oh! if the song, to feeling true,Can please the elect, the sacred few,Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought—If some fond feeling maid like thee,The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,Shall say, while o'er my simple themeShe languishes in Passion's dream,"He was, indeed, a tender soul—No critic law, no chill control,Should ever freeze, by timid art,The flowings of so fond a heart!"Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!That, hovering like a snow-winged dove,Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,And hailed me Passion's warmest child,—Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;Oh! let my song, my memory find,A shrine within the tender mind!And I will smile when critics chide,And I will scorn the fume of prideWhich mantles o'er the pendant fool,Like vapor round some stagnant pool!
Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,A dream, I find, illusory as sweet:One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare;Your heart was only mine, I once believed.Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air?AndmustI say, my hopes were all deceived?
Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twinedThat all our joys are felt with mutual zeal;Julia!—'tis pity, pity makes you kind;You know I love, and you wouldseemto feel.
But shall I still go seek within those armsA joy in which affection takes no part?No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.
My fates had destined me to roveA long, long pilgrimage of love;And many an altar on my wayHas lured my pious steps to stay;For if the saint was young and fair,I turned, and sung my vespers there.This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,Is what your pretty saints require:To pass, nor tell a single bead,With them would be profane indeed!But, trust me, all this young devotionWas but to keep my zeal in motion;And, every humbler altar past,I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!
When, casting many a look behind,I leave the friends I cherish here—Perchance some other friends to find,But surely finding none so dear—
Haply the little simple page,Which votive thus I've traced for thee,May now and then a look engage,And steal one moment's thought for me.
But, oh! in pity let not thoseWhose hearts are not of gentle mould,Let not the eye that seldom flowsWith feeling's tear, my song behold.
For, trust me, they who never meltWith pity, never melt with love;And such will frown at all I've felt,And all my loving lays reprove.
But if, perhaps, some gentler mind,Which rather loves to praise than blame,Should in my page an interest find.And linger kindly on my name;
Tell him—or, oh! if, gentler still,By female lips my name be blest:For where do all affections thrillSo sweetly as in woman's breast?—
Tell her, that he whose loving themesHer eye indulgent wanders o'er,Could sometimes wake from idle dreams,And bolder flights of fancy soar;
That Glory oft would claim the lay,And Friendship oft his numbers move;But whisper then, that, "sooth to say,His sweetest song was given to Love!"
Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part,Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;The heart will seek its kindred heart,And cling to it as close as ever.
But must we, must we part indeed?Is all our dream of rapture over?And does not Julia's bosom bleedTo leave so dear, so fond a lover?
Doesshe, too, mourn?—Perhaps she may;Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting;But why is Julia's eye so gay,If Julia's heart like mine is beating?
I oft have loved that sunny glowOf gladness in her blue eye beaming—But can the bosom bleed with woeWhile joy is in the glances beaming?
No, no!—Yet, love, I will not chide;Although your heartwerefond of roving,Nor that, nor all the world besideCould keep your faithful boy from loving.
You'll soon be distant from his eye,And, with you, all that's worth possessing.Oh! then it will be sweet to die,When life has lost its only blessing!
Sweet lady, look not thus again:Those bright, deluding smiles recallA maid remember'd now with pain,Who was my love, my life, my all!
Oh! while this heart bewildered tookSweet poison from her thrilling eye,Thus would she smile and lisp and look,And I would hear and gaze and sigh!
Yes, I did love her—wildly love—She was her sex's best deceiver!And oft she swore she'd never rove—And I was destined to believe her!
Then, lady, do not wear the smileOf one whose smile could thus betray;Alas! I think the lovely wileAgain could steal my heart away.
For, when those spells that charmed my mindOn lips so pure as thine I see,I fear the heart which she resignedWill err again and fly to thee!
In vain we fondly strive to traceThe soul's reflection in the face;In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,Crooked mouth or short proboscis;Boobies have looked as wise and brightAs Plato or the Stagirite:And many a sage and learned skullHas peeped through windows dark and dull.Since then, though art do all it can,We ne'er can reach the inward man,Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt)The inward woman, from without,Methinks 'twere well if nature could(And Nature could, if Nature would)Some pithy, short descriptions writeOn tablets large, in black and white,Which she might hang about our throttles,Like labels upon physic-bottles;And where all men might read—but stay—As dialectic sages say,The argument most apt and ampleFor common use is the example.For instance, then, if Nature's careHad not portrayed, in lines so fair,The inward soul of Lucy Lindon.Thisis the label she'd have pinned on.
Within this form there lies enshrinedThe purest, brightest gem of mind.Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throwUpon its charms the shade of woe,The lustre of the gem, when veiled,Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.
* * * * *
Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,That Nature wrote a second label,They're her own words—at least suppose so—And boldly pin it on Pomposo.
When I composed the fustian brainOf this redoubted Captain Vain.I had at hand but few ingredients,And so was forced to use expedients.I put therein some small discerning,A grain of sense, a grain of learning;And when I saw the void behind,I filled it up with—froth and wind!
* * * * *
When Time was entwining the garland of years,Which to crown my beloved was given,Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.
And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,May its verdure forever be new;Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,And Sympathy nurse it with dew.
See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile,Yon little billow heaves its breast,And foams and sparkles for awhile,—Then murmuring subsides to rest.
Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,Rises on time's eventful sea:And, having swelled a moment there,Thus melts into eternity!
Cloris! if I were Persia's king,I'd make my graceful queen of thee;While FANNY, wild and artless thing,Should but thy humble handmaid be.
There is butoneobjection in it—That, verily, I'm much afraidI should, in some unlucky minute,Forsake the mistress for the maid.
Say, did you not hear a voice of death!And did you not mark the paly formWhich rode on the silvery mist of the heath,And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?
Was it the wailing bird of the gloom,That shrieks on the house of woe all night?Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb,To howl and to feed till the glance of light?
'Twasnotthe death-bird's cry from the wood,Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast;'Twas the shade of Helderic—man of blood—It screams for the guilt of days that are past.
See, how the red, red lightning strays,And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath!Now on the leafless yew it plays,Where hangs the shield of this son of death.
That shield is blushing with murderous stains;Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray;It is blown by storms and washed by rains,But neither can take the blood away!
Oft by that yew, on the blasted field,Demons dance to the red moon's light;While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shieldSings to the raving spirit of night!
Oh! if your tears are given to care,If real woe disturbs your peace,Come to my bosom, weeping fair!And I will bid your weeping cease.
But if with Fancy's visioned fears,With dreams of woe your bosom thrill;You look so lovely in your tears,That I must bid you drop them still.
In slumber, I prithee how is itThat souls are oft taking the air,And paying each other a visit,While bodies are heaven knows where?
Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,Your soul took a fancy to roam,For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,Come ask, whetherminewas at home.
And mine let her in with delight,And they talked and they laughed the time through;For, when souls come together at night,There is no saying what they mayn't do!
Andyourlittle Soul, heaven bless her!Had much to complain and to say,Of how sadly you wrong and oppress herBy keeping her prisoned all day.
"If I happen," said she, "but to steal"For a peep now and then to her eye,"Or, to quiet the fever I feel,"Just venture abroad on a sigh;
"In an instant she frightens me in"With some phantom of prudence or terror,"For fear I should stray into sin,"Or, what is still worse, into error!
"So, instead of displaying my graces,"By daylight, in language and mien,"I am shut up in corners and places,"Where truly I blush to be seen!"
Upon hearing this piteous confession,MySoul, looking tenderly at her,Declared, as for grace and discretion,He did not know much of the matter;
"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said,"Be at home, after midnight, and then"I will come when your lady's in bed,"And we'll talk o'er the subject again."
So she whispered a word in his ear,I suppose to her door to direct him,And, just after midnight, my dear,Your polite little Soul may expect him.
The wisest soul, by anguish torn,Will soon unlearn the lore it knew;And when the shrining casket's worn,The gem within will tarnish too.
But love's an essence of the soul,Which sinks hot with this chain of clay;Which throbs beyond the chill controlOf withering pain or pale decay.
And surely, when the touch of DeathDissolves the spirit's earthly ties,Love still attends the immortal breath,And makes it purer for the skies!
Oh Rosa, when, to seek its sphere,My soul shall leave this orb of men,That love which formed its treasure here,Shall be itsbestof treasures then!
And as, in fabled dreams of old,Some air-born genius, child of time,Presided o'er each star that rolled,And tracked it through its path sublime;
So thou, fair planet, not unled,Shalt through thy mortal orbit stray;Thy lover's shade, to thee still wed,Shall linger round thy earthly way.
Let other spirits range the sky,And play around each starry gem;I'll bask beneath that lucid eye,Nor envy worlds of suns to them.
And when that heart shall cease to beat,And when that breath at length is free,Then, Rosa, soul to soul we'll meet,And mingle to eternity!
The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,Is fair—but oh, how fair,If Pity's hand had stolen from LoveOne leaf, to mingle there!
If every rose with gold were tied,Did gems for dewdrops fall,One faded leaf where Love had sighedWere sweetly worth them all.
The wreath you wove,—the wreath you woveOur emblem well may be;Its bloom is yours, but hopeless LoveMust keep its tears for me.
I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves,My nets by moonlight laying,I caught a flight of wanton Loves,Among the rose-beds playing.Some just had left their silvery shell,While some were full in feather;So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,Were never yet strung together.Come buy my Loves,Come buy my Loves,Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!—They're new and bright,The cost is light,For the coin of this isle is kisses.
First Cloris came, with looks sedate.The coin on her lips was ready;"I buy," quoth she, "my Love by weight,"Full grown, if you please, and steady.""Let mine be light," said Fanny, "pray—"Such lasting toys undo one;"A light little Love that will last to-day,—"To-morrow I'll sport a new one."Come buy my Loves,Come buy my Loves,Ye dames and rose-lipped misses!—There's some will keep,Some light and cheapAt from ten to twenty kisses.
The learned Prue took a pert young thing,To divert her virgin Muse with,And pluck sometimes a quill from his wing.To indite her billet-doux with,Poor Cloe would give for a well-fledged pairHer only eye, if you'd ask it;And Tabitha begged, old toothless fair.For the youngest Love in the basket.Come buy my Loves, etc.
Butonewas left, when Susan came,One worth them all together;At sight of her dear looks of shame,He smiled and pruned his feather.She wished the boy—'twas more than whim—Her looks, her sighs betrayed it;But kisses were not enough for him,I asked a heart and she paid it!Good-by, my Loves,Good-by, my Loves,'Twould make you smile to've seen usFirst, trade for thisSweet child of bliss,And then nurse the boy between us.
The world has just begun to stealEach hope that led me lightly on;I felt not, as I used to feel,And life grew dark and love was gone.
No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,No circling arms to draw me near—'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death.
But when I saw that gentle eye,Oh! something seemed to tell me then,That I was yet too young to die,And hope and bliss might bloom again.
With every gentle smile that crostYour kindling cheek, you lighted homeSome feeling which my heart had lostAnd peace which far had learned to roam.
'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,Hope looked so new and Love so kind.That, though I mourn, I yet forgiveThe ruin they have left behind.
I could have loved you—oh, so well!—The dream, that wishing boyhood knows,Is but a bright, beguiling spell,That only lives while passion glows.
But, when this early flush declines,When the heart's sunny morning fleets,You know not then how close it twinesRound the first kindred soul it meets.
Yes, yes, I could have loved, as oneWho, while his youth's enchantments fall,Finds something dear to rest upon,Which pays him for the loss of all.
Never mind how the pedagogue proses,You want not antiquity's stamp;A lip, that such fragrance discloses,Oh! never should smell of the lamp.
Old Cloe, whose withering kissHath long set the Loves at defiance,Now, done with the science of bliss,May take to the blisses of science.
But foryouto be buried in books—Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages,Who could not inoneof your looksRead more than in millions of pages.
Astronomy finds in those eyesBetter light than she studies above;And Music would borrow your sighsAs the melody fittest for Love.
Your Arithmetic only can tripIf to count your own charms you endeavor;And Eloquence glows on your lipWhen you swear that you'll love me for ever.
Thus you see, what a brilliant allianceOf arts is assembled in you;—A course of more exquisite scienceMan never need wish to pursue.
And, oh!—if a Fellow like meMay confer a diploma of hearts,With my lip thus I seal your degree,My divine little Mistress of Arts!
Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleepNor sees my tears not hears my sighs,Then will I weep, in anguish weep,Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.
But if thy sainted soul can feel,And mingles in our misery;Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal—Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.
The beam of morn was on the stream,But sullen clouds the day deform;Like thee was that young, orient beam,Like death, alas, that sullen storm!
Thou wert not formed for living here,So linked thy soul was with the sky;Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,We thought thou wert not formed to die.
And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,When surely there's nothing in nature more common?She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me—And could I expect any more from a woman?
Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure;And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe,When he held that you were but materials of pleasure,And reason and thinking were out of your sphere.
By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid;But, oh, while he's blest, let him die at the minute—If he live but aday, he'll be surely betrayed.
In witching slumbers of the night,I dreamt I was the airy spriteThat on thy natal moment smiled;And thought I wafted on my wingThose flowers which in Elysium spring,To crown my lovely mortal child.
With olive-branch I bound thy head,Heart's ease along thy path I shed,Which was to bloom through all thy years;Nor yet did I forget to bindLove's roses, with his myrtle twined,And dewed by sympathetic tears.
Such was the wild but precious boonWhich Fancy, at her magic noon,Bade me to Nona's image pay;And were it thus my fate to beThy little guardian deity,How blest around thy steps I'd play!
Thy life should glide in peace along,Calm as some lonely shepherd's songThat's heard at distance in the grove;No cloud should ever dim thy sky,No thorns along thy pathway lie,But all be beauty, peace and love.
Indulgent Time should never bringTo thee one blight upon his wing,So gently o'er thy brow he'd fly;And death itself should but be feltLike that of daybeams, when they melt,Bright to the last, in evening's sky!
Though sorrow long has worn my heart;Though every day I've, counted o'erHath brought a new and, quickening smartTo wounds that rankled fresh before;
Though in my earliest life bereftOf tender links by nature tied;Though hope deceived, and pleasure left;Though friends betrayed and foes belied;
I still had hopes—for hope will stayAfter the sunset of delight;So like the star which ushers day,We scarce can think it heralds night!—
I hoped that, after all its strife,My weary heart at length should rest.And, feinting from the waves of life,Find harbor in a brother's breast.
That brother's breast was warm with truth,Was bright with honor's purest ray;He was the dearest, gentlest youth—Ah, why then was he torn away?
He should have stayed, have lingered hereTo soothe his Julia's every woe;He should have chased each bitter tear,And not have caused those tears to flow.
We saw within his soul expandThe fruits of genius, nurst by taste;While Science, with a fostering hand,Upon his brow her chaplet placed.
We saw, by bright degrees, his mindGrow rich in all that makes men dear;Enlightened, social, and refined,In friendship firm, in love sincere.
Such was the youth we loved so well,And such the hopes that fate denied;—We loved, but ah! could scarcely tellHow deep, how dearly, till he died!
Close as the fondest links could strain,Twined with my very heart he grew;And by that fate which breaks the chain,The heart is almost broken too.
—Ego Pars—VIRG.
In wedlock a species of lottery lies,Where in blanks and in prizes we deal;But how comes it that you, such a capital prize,Should so long have remained in the wheel?
If ever, by Fortune's indulgent decree,To me such a ticket should roll,A sixteenth, Heaven knows! were sufficient for me;For what couldIdo with the whole?
I thought this heart enkindled layOn Cupid's burning shrine:I thought he stole thy heart away,And placed it near to mine.
I saw thy heart begin to melt,Like ice before the sun;Till both a glow congenial felt,And mingled into one!
With all my soul, then, let us part,Since both are anxious to be free;And I will sand you home your heart,If you will send mine back to me.
We've had some happy hours together,But joy must often change its wing;And spring would be but gloomy weather,If we had nothing else but spring.
'Tis not that I expect to findA more devoted, fond and true one,With rosier cheek or sweeter mind—Enough for me that she's a new one.
Thus let us leave the bower of love,Where we have loitered long in bliss;And you may downthatpathway rove,While I shall take my way throughthis.
"She never looked so kind before—"Yet why the wanton's smile recall?"I've seen this witchery o'er and o'er,"'Tis hollow, vain, and heartless all!"
Thus I said and, sighing drainedThe cup which she so late had tasted;Upon whose rim still fresh remainedThe breath, so oft in falsehood wasted.
I took the harp and would have sungAs if 'twere not of her I sang;But still the notes on Lamia hung—On whom but Lamiacouldthey hang?
Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,Like diamonds in some eastern river;That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,A world for every kiss I'd give her.
That frame so delicate, yet warmedWith flushes of love's genial hue;A mould transparent, as if formedTo let the spirit's light shine through.
Of these I sung, and notes and wordsWere sweet, as if the very airFrom Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords,And Lamia's voice still warbled there!
But when, alas, I turned the theme,And when of vows and oaths I spoke,Of truth and hope's seducing dream—The chord beneath my finger broke.
False harp! false woman! such, oh, suchAre lutes too frail and hearts too willing;Any hand, whate'er its touch,Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.
And when that thrill is most awake,And when you think Heaven's joys await you,The nymph will change, the chord will break—Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!
I saw the peasant's hand unkindFrom yonder oak the ivy sever;They seemed in very being twined;Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!
Not so the widowed ivy shines:Torn from its dear and only stay,In drooping widowhood it pines,And scatters all its bloom away.
Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,While mine, deserted, droops and dies!
Oh, lost, forever lost—no moreShall Vesper light our dewy wayAlong the rocks of Crissa's shore,To hymn the fading fires of day;No more to Tempe's distant valeIn holy musings shall we roam,Through summer's glow and winter's gale,To bear the mystic chaplets home.[1]
'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,By nature warmed and led by thee,In every breeze was taught to feelThe breathings of a Deity.Guide of my heart! still hovering round.Thy looks, thy words are still my own—I see thee raising from the groundSome laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.And hear thee say, "This humble boughWas planted for a doom divine;And, though it droop in languor now,Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!""Thus, in the vale of earthly sense,"Though sunk awhile the spirit lies,"A viewless hand shall cull it thence"To bloom immortal in the skies!"
All that the young should feel and knowBy thee was taught so sweetly well,Thy words fell soft as vernal snow,And all was brightness where they fell!Fond soother of my infant tear,Fond sharer of my infant joy,Is not thy shade still lingering here?Am I not still thy soul's employ?Oh yes—and, as in former days,When, meeting on the sacred mount,Our nymphs awaked their choral lays,And danced around Cassotis' fount;As then, 'twas all thy wish and care,That mine should be the simplest mien,My lyre and voice the sweetest there,My foot the lightest o'er the green:So still, each look and step to mould,Thy guardian care is round me spread,Arranging every snowy foldAnd guiding every mazy tread.And, when I lead the hymning choir,Thy spirit still, unseen and free,Hovers between my lip and lyre,And weds them into harmony.Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring waveShall never drop its silvery tearUpon so pure, so blest a grave,To memory so entirely dear!
[1] The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia; but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find, in Pausanias; that this valley supplied the branches, of which the temple was originally constructed; and Plutarch says, in his Dialogue on Music, "The youth who brings the Tempic laurel to Delphi is always attended by a player on the flute."