In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her,Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.
"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,"That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be;"He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:—"None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!
Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round herOn Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.
At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her,With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;His visor was down—but, with voice that thrilled thro her,He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.
"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee,"In me the great conqueror of conquerors see;"Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,"And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"
The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her,Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed herIn pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.
"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me?"Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;"Isthisthe bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?"With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.
"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"—Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;But she sunk on the ground—'twas a skeleton's featuresAnd Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!
'Twas midnight dark,The seaman's bark,Swift o'er the waters bore him,When, thro' the night,He spied a lightShoot o'er the wave before him."A sail! a sail!" he cries;"She comes from the Indian shore"And to-night shall be our prize,"With her freight of golden ore;"Sail on! sail on!"When morning shoneHe saw the gold still clearer;But, though so fastThe waves he pastThat boat seemed never the nearer.
Bright daylight came,And still the sameRich bark before him floated;While on the prizeHis wishful eyesLike any young lover's doted:"More sail! more sail!" he cries,While the waves overtop the mast;And his bounding galley flies,Like an arrow before the blast.Thus on, and on,Till day was gone,And the moon thro' heaven did hie her,He swept the main,But all in vain,That boat seemed never the nigher.
And many a dayTo night gave way,And many a morn succeeded:While still his flight,Thro day and night,That restless mariner speeded.Who knows—who knows what seasHe is now careering o'er?Behind, the eternal breeze,And that mocking bark, before!For, oh, till skyAnd earth shall die,And their death leave none to rue it,That boat must fleeO'er the boundless sea,And that ship in vain pursue it.
Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded StrangerWho sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-rangerHears soft fairy music re-echo around.
None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand;But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady,Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.
'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.
We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;—But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high,With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.
Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,And light from another already shines through.
Then her eyes, when she sung—oh, but once to have seen them—Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;While her looks and her voice made a language between them,That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.
But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her—Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her.That song of past days on her lips to the last.
Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing—Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.
To-day, dearest! is ours;Why should Love carelessly lose it?This life shines or lowersJust as we, weak mortals, use it.'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,To think of the thorns of SorrowAnd Joy, if left on the stem to-day,May wither before to-morrow.
Then why, dearest! so longLet the sweet moments fly over?Tho' now, blooming and youngThou hast me devoutly thy lover;Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,Some treasure may steal or borrow;Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,Or I less in love to-morrow.
When on the lip the sigh delays,As if 'twould linger there for ever;When eyes would give the world to gaze,Yet still look down and venture never;When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,There's one we dream of more than any—If all this is not real love,'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!
To think and ponder, when apart,On all we've got to say at meeting;And yet when near, with heart to heart,Sit mute and listen to their beating:To see but one bright object move,The only moon, where stars are many—If all this is not downright love,I prithee say whatis, my Fanny!
When Hope foretells the brightest, best,Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons;When Passion drives us to the west,Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons;When all turns round, below, above,And our own heads the most of any—If this is not stark, staring love,Then you and I are sages, Fanny.
Here, take my heart—'twill be safe in thy keeping,While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,What need I care, so my heart is with thee?
If in the race we are destined to run, love,They who have light hearts the happiest be,Then happier still must be they who have none, love.And that will bemycase when mine is with thee.
It matters not where I may now be a rover,I care not how many bright eyes I may see;Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,I'd tell her I couldn't—my heart is with thee.
And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder—For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,Why, let her go—I've a treasure beyond her,As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!
Oh, call it by some better name,For Friendship sounds too cold,While Love is now a worldly flame,Whose shrine must be of gold:And Passion, like the sun at noon,That burns o'er all he sees,Awhile as warm will set as soon—Then call it none of these.
Imagine something purer far,More free from stain of clayThan Friendship, Love, or Passion are,Yet human, still as they:And if thy lip, for love like this,No mortal word can frame,Go, ask of angels what it is,And call it by that name!
Poor wounded heart, farewell!Thy hour of rest is come;Thou soon wilt reach thy home,Poor wounded heart, farewell!The pain thou'lt feel in breakingLess bitter far will be,Than that long, deadly aching,This life has been to thee.
There—broken heart, farewell!The pang is o'er—The parting pang is o'er;Thou now wilt bleed no more.Poor broken heart, farewell!No rest for thee but dying—Like waves whose strife is past,On death's cold shore thus lying,Thou sleepst in peace at last—Poor broken heart, farewell!
Come, May, with all thy flowers,Thy sweetly-scented thorn,Thy cooling evening showers,The fragrant breath at morn:When, May-flies haunt the willow,When May-buds tempt the bee,Then o'er the shining billowMy love will come to me.
From Eastern Isles she's wingingThro' watery wilds her way,And on her cheek is bringingThe bright sun's orient ray:Oh, come and court her hither,Ye breezes mild and warm—One winter's gale would witherSo soft, so pure a form.
The fields where she was strayingAre blest with endless light,With zephyrs always playingThro' gardens always bright.Then now, sweet May! be sweeterThan e'er, thou'st been before;Let sighs from roses meet herWhen she comes near our shore.
Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee?Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath—In vain the sunbeams seekTo warm that faded cheek;The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee;Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.
So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,—Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;In vain the smiles of allLike sunbeams round her fall:The only smile that could from death awaken her,That smile, alas! is gone to others now.
Being weary of love,I flew to the grove,And chose me a tree of the fairest;Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,"Thou my mistress shall be,"And I'll worship each bud thou bearest."For the hearts of this world are hollow,"And fickle the smiles we follow;"And 'tis sweet, when all"Their witcheries pall"To have a pure love to fly to:"So, my pretty Rose-tree,"Thou my mistress shalt be,"And the only one now I shall sigh to."
When the beautiful hueOf thy cheek thro' the dewOf morning is bashfully peeping,"Sweet tears," I shall say(As I brush them away),"At least there's no art in this weeping"Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;'Twill not be from pain or sorrow;And the thorns of thy stemAre not like themWith which men wound each other;So, my pretty Rose-tree,Thou my mistress shalt beAnd I'll never again sigh to another.
Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assembleRound us every festal ray,Lights that move not, lights that tremble,All to grace this Eve of May.Let the flower-beds all lie waking,And the odors shut up there,From their downy prisons breaking,Fly abroad thro sea and air.
And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,With our other joys to weave,Oh what glory, what completeness,Then would crown this bright May Eve!Shine out, Stars! let night assembleRound us every festal ray,Lights that move not, lights that tremble,To adorn this Eve of May.
Oh, the joys of our evening posada,Where, resting, at close of day,We, young Muleteers of Grenada,Sit and sing the sunshine away;So merry, that even the slumbersThat round us hung seem gone;Till the lute's soft drowsy numbersAgain beguile them on.Oh the joys, etc.
Then as each to his loved sultanaIn sleep still breathes the sigh,The name of some black-eyed Tirana,Escapes our lips as we lie.Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,Again we're up and gone—While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkleBeguiles the rough way on.Oh the joys of our merry posada,Where, resting at close of day,We, young Muleteers of Grenada,Thus sing the gay moments away.
Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lyingBeneath the green arbor is still lying there;And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.
Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,Beside the green arbor she playfully set,As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.
So while away from that arbor forsaken,The maiden is wandering, still let her beAs true as the lute that no sighing can wakenAnd blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!
Nights of music, nights of loving,Lost too soon, remembered long.When we went by moonlight roving,Hearts all love and lips all song.When this faithful lute recordedAll my spirit felt to thee;And that smile the song rewarded—Worth Whole years of fame to me!
Nights of song, and nights of splendor,Filled with joys too sweet to last—Joys that, like the star-light, tender,While they shore no shadow cast.Tho' all other happy hoursFrom my fading memory fly,Of, that starlight, of those bowers,Not a beam, a leaf may die!
Our first young love resemblesThat short but brilliant ray,Which smiles and weeps and tremblesThro' April's earliest day.And not all life before us,Howe'er its lights may play,Can shed a lustre o'er usLike that first April ray.
Our summer sun may squanderA blaze serener, grander;Our autumn beamMay, like a dreamOf heaven, die calm away;But no—let life before usBring all the light it may,'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er usLike that first youthful ray.
The brilliant black eyeMay in triumph let flyAll its darts without Caring who feels 'em;But the soft eye of blue,Tho' it scatter wounds too,Is much better pleased when it heals 'em—Dear Fanny!Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.
The black eye may say,"Come and worship my ray—"By adoring, perhaps you may move me!"But the blue eye, half hid,Says from under its lid,"I love and am yours, if you love me!"Yes, Fanny!The blue eye, half hid,Says, from under its lid,"I love and am yours, if you love me!"
Come tell me, then, whyIn that lovely blue eyeNot a charm of its tint I discover;Oh why should you wearThe only blue pairThat ever said "No" to a lover?Dear Fanny!Oh, why should you wearThe only blue pairThat ever said "No" to a lover?
"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;"She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;"Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,Dear Fanny.'Tis not the first time I have thought so.
"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;"'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;"Thus Love has advised me and who will denyThat Love reasons much better than Reason,Dear Fanny?Love reasons much better than Reason.
From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?Hark!—hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.Our country lies bleeding—haste, haste to her aid;One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains—The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleedFor virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.And oh, even if Freedom fromthisworld be driven,Despair not—at least we shall find her in heaven.
Here's the bower she loved so much,And the tree she planted;Here's the harp she used to touch—Oh, how that touch enchanted!Roses now unheeded sigh;Where's the hand to wreathe them?Songs around neglected lie;Where's the lip to breathe them?Here's the bower, etc.
Spring may bloom, but she we lovedNe'er shall feel its sweetness;Time, that once so fleetly moved,Now hath lost its fleetness.Years were days, when here she strayed,Days were moments near her;Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,Nor Pity wept a dearer!Here's the bower, etc.
I saw the moon rise clearO'er hills and vales of snowNor told my fleet reindeerThe track I wished to go.Yet quick he bounded forth;For well my reindeer knewI've but one path on earth—The path which leads to you.
The gloom that winter cast,How soon the heart forgets,When summer brings, at last,Her sun that never sets!So dawned my love for you;So, fixt thro' joy and pain,Than summer sun more true,'Twill never set again.
Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shadeWhere man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played;"Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love,"Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move.""I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun,"So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."
Then Love took the Dial away from the shade,And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played.There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye,While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by."Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid"That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"
But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er,And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more.Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and windsAre storming around her, with sorrow she findsThat Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,—Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!
'Tis said—but whether true or notLet bards declare who've seen 'em—That Love and Time have only gotOne pair of wings between 'em.In Courtship's first delicious hour,The boy full oft can spare 'em;So, loitering in his lady's bower,He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.Then is Time's hour of play;Oh, how be flies, flies away!
But short the moments, short as bright,When he the wings can borrow;If Time to-day has had his flight,Love takes his turn to-morrow.Ah! Time and Love, your change is thenThe saddest and most trying,When one begins to limp again,And t'other takes to flying.Then is Love's hour to stray;Oh, how he flies, flies away!
But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel,And bless the silken fetter,Who knows, the dear one, how to dealWith Love and Time much better.So well she checks their wanderings,So peacefully she pairs 'em,That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,And Time for ever wears 'em.This is Time's holiday;Oh, how he flies, flies away!
Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us—Youth may wither, but feeling will last;All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er usLove's light summer-cloud only shall cast.Oh, if to love thee moreEach hour I number o'er—If this a passion beWorthy of thee,Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee,Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel.Oh, if there be a charm,In love, to banish harm—If pleasure's truest spellBe to love well,Then be happy, for thus I adore thee,Charms may wither, but feeling shall last;All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee.Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Love, wandering through the golden mazeOf my beloved's hair,Traced every lock with fond delays,And, doting, lingered there.And soon he found 'twere vain to fly;His heart was close confined,For, every ringlet was a tie—A chain by beauty twined.
Merrily every bosom boundeth,Merrily, oh!Where the song of Freedom soundeth,Merrily oh!There the warrior's armsShed more splendor;There the maiden's charm'sShine more tender;Every joy the land surroundeth,Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!
Wearily every bosom pineth,Wearily, oh!Where the bond of slavery twinethWearily, ohThere the warrior's dartHath no fleetness;There the maiden's heartHath no sweetness—Every flower of life declineth,Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!
Cheerily then from hill and valley,Cheerily, oh!Like your native fountain sally,Cheerily, oh!If a glorious death,Won by bravery,Sweeter be than breathSighed in slavery,Round the flag of Freedom rally,Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!
Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades,When our moments so blissfully flew;When you called me the flower of Castilian maids,And I blushed to be called so by you;When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille.And to dance to the light castanet;Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will,The delight of those moments forget.
They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle,Every hour a new passion can feel;And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile.You'll forget the poor maid of Castile.But they know not how brave in battle you are,Or they never could think you would rove;For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in warThat is fondest and truest in Love.
Our white sail caught the evening ray,The wave beneath us seemed to burn,When all the weeping maid could say,Was, "Oh, soon return!"Thro' many a clime our ship was drivenO'er many a billow rudely thrown;Now chilled beneath a northern heaven,Now sunned in summer's zone:And still, where'er we bent our way,When evening bid the west wave burn,I fancied still I heard her say,"Oh, soon return!"
If ever yet my bosom foundIts thoughts one moment turned from thee,'Twas when the combat raged around,And brave men looked to me.But tho' the war-field's wild alarmFor gentle love was all unmeet,He lent to glory's brow the charm,Which made even danger sweet.And still, when victory's calm came o'erThe hearts where rage had ceased to burn,Those parting words I heard once more,"Oh, soon return!—Oh, soon return!"
Love thee?—so well, so tenderlyThou'rt loved, adored by me,Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,Were worthless without thee.Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,Life's cup before me lay,Unless thy love were mingled there,I'd spurn the draft away.Love thee?—so well, so tenderly,Thou'rt loved, adored by me,Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,Are worthless without thee.
Without thy smile, the monarch's lotTo me were dark and lone,While,withit, even the humblest cotWere brighter than his throne.Those worlds for which the conqueror sighsFor me would have no charms;My only world thy gentle eyes—My throne thy circling arms!Oh, yes, so well, so tenderlyThou'rt loved, adored by me,Whole realms of light and libertyWere worthless without thee.
Couldst thou look as dear as whenFirst I sighed for thee;Couldst thou make me feel againEvery wish I breathed thee then,Oh, how blissful life would be!Hopes that now beguiling leave me,Joys that lie in slumber cold—All would wake, couldst thou but give meOne dear smile like those of old.
No—there's nothing left us now,But to mourn the past;Vain was every ardent vow—Never yet did Heaven allowLove so warm, so wild, to last.Not even hope could now deceive me—Life itself looks dark and cold;Oh, thou never more canst give meOne dear smile like those of old
Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er,He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay;And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore,The charms that remain will be bright as before,And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay,That Friendship our last happy moments will crown:Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away,While Friendship, like those at the closing of day,Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.
The beam of morning tremblingStole o'er the mountain brook,With timid ray resemblingAffection's early look.Thus love begins—sweet morn of love!
The noon-tide ray ascended,And o'er the valley's streamDiffused a glow as splendidAs passion's riper dream.Thus love expands—warm noon of love!
But evening came, o'ershadingThe glories of the sky,Like faith and fondness fadingFrom passion's altered eye.Thus love declines—cold eve of love!
The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,Till not one hateful link remainsOf slavery's lingering chains;Till not one tyrant tread our plains,Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.No! never till that glorious dayShall Lusitania's sons be gay,Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome layResounding thro' her sunny mountains.
The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,"Your cloud of foes hath past away,"And Freedom comes with new-born ray"To gild your vines and light your fountains."Oh, never till that glorious dayShall Lusitania's sons be gay,Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome layResounding thro' her sunny mountains.
The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright,Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.
Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life beProlonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.
When midst the gay I meetThat gentle smile of thine,Tho' still on me it turns most sweet,I scarce can call it mine:But when to me aloneYour secret tears you show,Oh, then I feel those tears my own,And claim them while they flow.Then still with bright looks blessThe gay, the cold, the free;Give smiles to those who love you less,But keep your tears for me.
The snow on Jura's steepCan smile in many a beam,Yet still in chains of coldness sleep.How bright soe'er it seem.But, when some deep-felt rayWhose touch is fire appears,Oh, then the smile is warmed away,And, melting, turns to tears.Then still with bright looks blessThe gay, the cold, the free;Give smiles to those who love you less,But keep your tears for me.
When twilight dews are falling softUpon the rosy sea, love,I watch the star, whose beam so oftHas lighted me to thee, love.And thou too, on that orb so dear,Dost often gaze at even,And think, tho' lost for ever here,Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.
There's not a garden walk I tread,There's not a flower I see, love,But brings to mind some hope that's fled,Some joy that's gone with thee, Love.And still I wish that hour was near,When, friends and foes forgiven,The pains, the ills we've wept thro' hereMay turn to smiles in heaven.
Young Jessica sat all the day,With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining;Her needle bright beside her lay,So active once!—now idly shining.Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle heartsThat love and mischief are most nimble;The safest shield against the dartsOf Cupid is Minerva's thimble.
The child who with a magnet playsWell knowing all its arts, so wily,The tempter near a needle lays.And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily."The needle, having naught to do,Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle;Till closer, closer come the two,And—off, at length, elopes the needle.
Now, had this needle turned its eyeTo some gay reticule's construction,It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie,Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction.Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts,Your snowy fingers must be nimble;The safest shield against the dartsOf Cupid is Minerva's thimble.
Howhappy, once, tho' winged with sighs,My moments flew along,While looking on those smiling eyes,And listening to thy magic song!But vanished now, like summer dreams,Those moments smile no more;For me that eye no longer beams,That song for me is o'er.Mine the cold brow,That speaks thy altered vow,While others feel thy sunshine now.
Oh, could I change my love like thee,One hope might yet be mine—Some other eyes as bright to see,And hear a voice as sweet as thine:But never, never can this heartBe waked to life again;With thee it lost its vital part,And withered then!Cold its pulse lies,And mute are even its sighs,All other grief it now defies.
If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,And think this heart to other loves will stray,If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;By every dream I have when thou'rt away,By every throb I feel when thou art near me,I love but thee—I love but thee!
By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,Or grave or gay, a music of its own,A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,I love but thee—I love but thee!
By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes,As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow,And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush disclosesA hue too bright to bless this world below,And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses,I love but thee—I love but thee!
Let thy joys alone be remembered now,Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile;Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,Let Love light it up with his smile,For thus to meet, and thus to find,That Time, whose touch can chillEach flower of form, each grace of mind,Hath left thee blooming still,Oh, joy alone should be thought of now,Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,Let Love light it up with his smile.
When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade,If butonebright leaf remain,Of the many that once its glory made,It is not for us to complain.But thus to meet and thus to wakeIn all Love's early bliss;Oh, Time all other gifts may take,So he but leaves us this!Then let joy alone be remembered now,Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow,Let Love light it up with his smile!
Love thee, dearest? love thee?Yes, by yonder star I swear,Which thro' tears above theeShines so sadly fair;Tho' often dim,With tears, like him,Like him my truth will shine,And—love thee, dearest? love thee?Yes, till death I'm thine.
Leave thee, dearest? leave thee?No, that star is not more true;When my vows deceive thee,Hewill wander too.A cloud of nightMay veil his light,And death shall darken mine—But—leave thee, dearest? leave thee?No, till death I'm thine.
I give thee all—I can no more—Tho' poor the offering be;My heart and lute are all the storeThat I can bring to thee.A lute whose gentle song revealsThe soul of love full well;And, better far, a heart that feelsMuch more than lute could tell.
Tho' love and song may fail, alas!To keep life's clouds away,At least 'twill make them lighter pass,Or gild them if they stay.And even if Care at moments flingsA discord o'er life's happy strain,Let Love but gently touch the strings,'Twill all be sweet again!
When I am dead.Then lay my headIn some lone, distant dell,Where voices ne'erShall stir the air,Or break its silent spell.
If any soundBe heard around,Let the sweet bird alone,That weeps in song,Sing all night long,"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"
Yet, oh, were mineOne sigh of thine,One pitying word from thee,Like gleams of heaven,To sinners given,Would be that word to me.
Howe'er unblest,My shade would restWhile listening to that tone;—Enough 'twould beTo hear from thee,"Peace, peace, to him that gone."
Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray,Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away;No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,—In vestal silence left to live and die.—Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be,Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.
Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom!Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom;Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day;A moment cherished, and then cast away;Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,—Worshipt while blooming—when she fades, forgot.
If life for me hath joy or light,'Tis all from thee,My thoughts by day, my dreams by night,Are but of thee, of only thee.Whate'er of hope or peace I know,My zest in joy, my balm in woe,To those dear eyes of thine I owe,'Tis all from thee.
My heart, even ere I saw those eyes,Seemed doomed to thee;Kept pure till then from other ties,'Twas all for thee, for only thee.Like plants that sleep till sunny MayCalls forth their life my spirit lay,Till, touched by Love's awakening ray,It lived for thee, it lived for thee.
When Fame would call me to her heights,She speaks by thee;And dim would shine her proudest lights,Unshared by thee, unshared by thee.Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine,Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine,And wish those wreaths of glory mine,'Tis all for thee, for only thee.