What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks, In the vetches that tangled their shore! Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, Had scathed my.existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, Star of love's soft interviews, Their remembrancer in Heaven By absence from the heart. STANZAS TO PAINTING. O THOU by whose expressive art And sweeter by reflection please! In whose creative hand the hues I bless thee, Promethéan muse ! And call thee brightest of the Nine! Possessing more than vocal power, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung; Does Hope her high possession meet? But, O! thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; Long absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. Then for a beam of joy to light In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Shall Song its witching cadence roll? What visions rise, to charm, to melt! But thou, serenely silent Art! By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost! if, yet possest, Or, gazing through luxurious tears, She looks she lives! this trancéd hour, Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled Thy softening, sweetening tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems. From love began thy high descent; THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. NEVER wedding, ever wooing, In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Damped, and wavering, and benighted, Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, ABSENCE. 'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, What though, untouched by jealous madness, Absence! is not the soul torn by it From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, The pain without the peace of death! |