THE

CONFESSION.

To

BID the cold and callous-hearted
Brood o'er bliss he ne'er imparted:
Let him linger, let him languish,
In his sordid, selfish anguish :
Not a sun his soul shall borrow,
To dispel his night of sorrow;
And a something shall annoy,
With a dread, his dreams of joy.

He knows not the blissful union Souls partake by soft communion ; He knows not the pleasing sadness, Less allied to grief than gladness,

Which the pensive heart is proving,
When its life consists in loving,
As congenial pulses beat

With a mild and mutual heat.

He who can despise thee, woman,
Must be more or less than human;
On his heart a frost is seizing,
In his veins the blood is freezing;

If thou can'st not, what can move it?

But his coldness none will covet,

Not a bosom shall condole

With his poor and paltry soul.

Some may say thine eyes are cheating,
Some may say thy love is fleeting,
Some may say-but I believe not-
Well I know thy smiles deceive not.
There is one, whose face my being
Finds redoubled life in seeing,
Who with seraph smile inspires
Gentle love, and genial fires.

Fairy is her form of lightness,
Azure is her eye of brightness,
Snowy is her brow, above it

Wreathe the auburn curls that love it,

Sweetly twining, and invading

Rosy cheeks that need not shading:

Blush not at my telling thee,

Oh my sweet that thou art she!

SONNET.

TO IDA.

OH! I have loved thee with a boundless love,
Through all the wayward changes of my fate!
Thou wert the star, whose rays could dissipate
My gather'd gloom, and bid all clouds remove:
Our passion grew from childhood; with our days
It strengthen'd, and it prosper'd, and became
Within our souls an Ætna of pure flame,
Bright as the sun, and quenchless in its blaze:
The master current of my mind was bowd
To thine-like rainbow o'er a mountain stream,
When Evening shines upon the silvery cloud,
Stealing, and lending beauty in its beam ;
Thou wert the idol of my heart avow'd,

And life, without thee, was a troublous dream!

SONNET.

TO LOVE.

THE world bursts in between us—we must part !

Earth is no home for happiness; the dreams
That lapp'd me in Elysium were but gleams

Of phantasy, and mock'd the willing heart:

Ah! never more such landscapes of delight
Shall spread their bloom around me; never more
The western sun behold me as of

yore,
Nor such a glory gild the vault of night!
Why should we wish a heritage of years,
Since joy is but a vision! why should we,
Children of error, seeing what we see,
Anchor upon an isle that disappears?
All sublunary things take wings and flee,
Save disappointment, grief, and gushing tears.