REMEMBER ME.

IN Seville, when the feast was long,
And lips and lutes grew free,
At Inez' feet, amid the throng,
A masquer bent his knee;
And still the burden of his song
Was, "Sweet, remember me!

"Remember me in shine and shower, In sorrow and in glee;

When summer breathes upon the flower,
When winter blasts the tree,

When there are dances in the bower
Or sails upon the sea.

"Remember me beneath far skies,

On foreign lawn or lea;

When others worship those wild

Which I no more may see,

When others wake the melodies
Of which I mar the key.

eyes

"Remember me! my heart will claim

No love, no trust from thee;

Remember me, though doubt and blame

Linked with the record be;

Remember me,-with scorn or shame,—
But yet, remember me!"

(1827.)

16

TO THE REV. DERWENT COLERIDGE,

ON HIS MARRIAGE.

WHO must the beauteous Lady be
That wins that heart of thine?
In a dream, methinks, she comes to me,
Half mortal, half divine,
Robed in a fine and fairy dress

From Fancy's richest store,-
A more becoming garb, I guess,

Than e'er man's mistress wore!

With a step that glides o'er turf and stone
As light as the morning beams,

And a voice whose every whispered tone
Calls up a host of dreams;

And a form which you might safely swear
Young Nature taught to dance,
And dazzling brow and floating hair
Which are themselves romance;

And eyes more eloquently bright
Than ether's brightest star,
With much of genius in their light,
And more of fondness far;

And an untainted love of earth

And all earth's lovely things,

And smiles and tears, whose grief and mirth Flow forth from kindred springs;

And a calm heart, so wholly given

To him whose love it wakes,

That through all storms of Fate and Heaven

It bends with his-or breaks.

Such must the beauteous Lady be
That wins that heart of thine,

And is to thy fair destiny
What none may be to mine!

(1827.)

FROM GOETHE.

UNHEEDED toils, unvalued cares,
And slighted sighs, and baffled prayers,
Hate, cruelty, caprice, disdain,-

Are these thy sad harp's saddest theme,
Thy morning thought, thy midnight dream?

Away!-it is a weary lot

To waste love's songs where love is not;
But do not thou, fond boy, complain;
Alas! to some 'tis bitterer far

To love, and feel how loved they are!

(JUNE 12, 1828.)