The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose,
Within its robe of light,
Can never touch a leaf that blows,
Though seeming to the sight;
Like hopeless love without despair,-
A snow-drop in the sun!
A moment finely exquisite,
Alas! but only one.
I would not have thy married heart
Think momently of me,—
Nor would I tear the chords apart,
That bind me so to thee;
No! while my thoughts seem pure and mild,
Like dew upon the roses wild,
I would not have thee know
The stream that seems to thee so still,
Has such a tide below!
Enough; that in delicious dreams
I see thee and forget;
Enough, that when the morning beams,
I feel my eyelids wet!
Yet could I hope, when Time shall fall
The darkness, for creation's pall,
To meet thee,-and to love,
I would not shrink from aught below,
Nor ask for more above.
"She turned to him sorrowfully, saying, 'Thou art free?' Then first did he feel how deep is the bondage of love."
I HAVE loosed every bond from thy uneasy heart,
Have given thee back every pledge that was dear;
I have bidden thee go, yet thou wilt not depart—
I have prompted away, yet still thou art here.
I knew that thy freedom would be but in vain,
Thy bondage the same, though absent the token:
The chain may be reft, yet the scar will remain ;
The weight will be felt, though the links are all broken.
I shed not a tear when I bade thee depart
My lip curled with pride, but nothing with scorn; If the pang or the aching were felt at the heart,
Thou couldst not divine that it nourished the thorn.
I dreamed not of comfort, I prayed not for bliss;
In loving I knew was the wreck of: my
life:
In silence I bowed and asked but for this-
Thou ever the same in my darkness and strife!
The prayer hath been mocked, it is well that we part;
Yet it grieves me a will so unfettered as thine
Should wrestle in vain with the bonds of the heart,
A captive unwilling in jesses of mine.
I would send thee away with fetterless wing,
With eye that nor dimness nor sorrow hath known;
The free airs of heaven around thee shall sing,
And I bear the shaft and the anguish alone.
I have learned to endure, I have hugged my despair,
I scourge back the madness that else would invade;
On my brain falls the drop after drop, yet I bear,
Lest thou shouldst discover the wreck thou hast made!
DESCRIPTION OF LOVE, BY VENUS.
THOUGH old in cunning, as in years,
He is so small, that like a child
In face and form the god appears,
And sportive like a boy, and wild;
Lightly he moves from place to place,
In none at rest, in none content;
Delighted some new toy to chase—
On childish purpose ever bent.
Beware! to childhood's spirit gay
Is added more than childhood's power;
And you perchance may rue the hour.
That saw you join this seeming play.
He quick is anger'd, and as quick
His short-lived passion's over-past,
Like summer lightnings, flashing thick,
But flying ere a bolt is cast.
I've seen, myself, as 'twere together,
Now joy, now grief assume its place,
Shedding a sort of April weather,
Sunshine and rain upon his face.
His curling hair floats on the wind,
Like Fortune's, long and thick before,
And rich and bright as golden ore:
Like hers, his head is bald behind.
His ruddy face is strangely bright,
It is the very hue of fire,
The inward spirit's quenchless light,
The glow of many a soft desire.
He hides his eye that keenly flashes,
But sometimes steals a thrilling glance
From 'neath his drooping silken lashes,
And sometimes looks with eye askance;
But seldom ventures he to gaze
With looks direct and open eye.;
For well he knows-the urchin sly-
But one such look his guile betrays.
His tongue, that seems to have left just then
His mother's breast, discourses sweet,
And forins his lisping infant strain
In words scarce utter'd, half-complete;
Yet, wafted on a winged sigh,
And led by Flattery, gentle guide,
Unseen into the heart they fly,
Its coldness melt, and tame its pride.
In smiles that hide intended woe,
His ruddy lips are always dress'd,
As flowers conceal the listening crest
Of the coil'd snake that lurks below.
In carriage courteous, meek, and mild,
Humble in speech, and soft in look,
He seems a wandering orphan child,
And asks a shelter in some nook
Or corner left unoccupied :
But once admitted as a guest, By slow degrees he lays aside
That lowly port and look distress',
Then insolent assumes his reign,
Displays his captious, high-bred airs,
His causeless pets and jealous fears,
His fickle fancy and unquiet brain.
Go forth in life, oh, friend! not seeking love, A mendicant, that with imploring eye
And outstretched hand asks of the passers-by The alms his strong necessities may move. For such poor love, to pity near allied,
Thy generous spirit may not stoop and wait, A suppliant whose prayer may be denied Like a spurned beggar's at a palace-gate : But thy heart's affluence lavish uncontrolledThe largeness of thy love give full and free, As monarchs in their progress scatter gold: And be thy heart like the exhaustless sea, That must its wealth of cloud and dew bestow, Through tributary streams or ebb or flow.
LIKE target for the arrow's aim,
Like snow beneath the sunny heats,
Like wax before the glowing flame,
Like cloud before the wind that fleets,
I am 'tis love that made me so,
And, lady, still thou sayest me no.
The wound's inflicted by thine eyes,
The mortal wound to hope and me,
Which nought, alas, can cicatrize,
Nor time, nor absence, far from thee.
Thou art the sun, the fire, the wind,
That make me such; ah, then 'be kind!
My thoughts are darts, my soul to smite;
Thy charms the sun, to blind my sense,
My wishes-ne'er did passion light
A flame more pure or more intense.
Love all these arms at once employs,
And wounds, and dazzles, and destroys.
LADY, I love, at eventide,
When stars, as now, are on the wave,
To stray in loneliness and muse
Upon the one dear form that gave
Its sunlight to my boyhood! oft
That same sweet look sinks, still and soft,
Upon my spirit, and appears
As lovely as in by-gone years.
Eve's low, faint wind is breathing now,
With deep and soul-like murmuring,
Through the dark pines; and thy sweet words
Seem borne on its mysterious wing;
And oft, mid musings sad and lone,
At night's deep noon, that thrilling tone
Swells in the wind, low, wild, and clear,
Like music in the dreaming air.
When sleep's calm wing is on my brow,
And dreams of peace my spirit lull,
Before me, like a mystic star,
That form floats dim and beautiful;
And, when the gentle moonbeams smile
On the blue streams and dark-green isle,
In every ray pour'd down the sky,
That same light form seems stealing by.
It is a blessed picture, shrined
In memory's urn, the wing of years
Can change it not, for there it glows,
Undimm'd by "weaknesses and tears;'"*
Deep-hidden in its still recess,
It beams with love and holiness,
O'er hours of being, dark and dull,
Till life seems almost beautiful.
The vision cannot fade away;
'Tis in the stillness of my heart,
And o'er its brightness have I mused
In solitude; it is a part
Of my existence; a dear flower
Breathed on by Heaven: morn's earliest hour
That flower bedews, and its blue eye
At eve still rests upon the sky..
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