Abbildungen der Seite

Was 't in my childhood, boyhood, manhood?

-Oh! In all of them I loved thee! And were I now To live the span of my first life, twice told, And then to wither, thou surviving me, And yet I lived in thy sweet memory, Then might'st thou say of me, “ He loved

me once ; But that was all his life!”

Countess.-'Twas heart for heart! I loved thee ever! Yes! the passion now Thrills on the woman's tongue; the girl's had

told thee, Had I been bold as fond; for even then I saw thy worth, but did not see thy station, Till others, not so well affected toward thee, Reveal'd it to me by their cold regards. I could not help my nature. From that time Two passions strove in my divided soul For mastery

scorn of thy station, love For thee-each feeding on the other's hate And growing stronger; till I thought their

strife Would shake my frame to dissolution! Yes!

Oh, Huon! when my brow sat cloudy oft O'er my cold eye,

that look'd askant at thee, Thou little thought what friend there was

within Would make that brow clear as a summer

sky, That eye, bright glowing as a summer's sun, To kindle thee—as they, their world, with

life, And health, and wealth, and gladness.



Of all flowers,
Methinks the Rose is best.
It is the very emblem of a maid:
For, when the west wind courts her gently,
How modestly she blows and paints the sun
With her chaste blushes! When the north

comes near her,
Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity,
She locks her beauties in her bud again,
And leaves him to base briers.




She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove, A maid, whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love :

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown,--and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be :
But she is in her grave, and, oh!

The difference to me!


SONNET. Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely maid Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, How here I linger in this sullen shade, This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. Say, that, from ev'ry joy of life remote, At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note Who pours like me, her solitary song. Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing

sigh, Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, In fancy feel the magic of her eye, In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, Court the lone hour when silence stills the

grove, And heave the sigh of Memory and of Love.


Go, lovely Rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spy'd,

That hadst thou sprung
In desarts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended dy'd.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd:

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die ! that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!



When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can wash her guilt away ?

« ZurückWeiter »