'Tis vain to struggle: let me perish young,
Live as I lived, love as I have loved;
To dust if I return from dust I sprung,
And then at least my heart cannot be moved.
I would not court Lethean streams
My sorrowing sense to steep,
Nor drink oblivion to the themes
O'er which I love to weep.
YEARS of anguish and gloom have gone by,
Since I last drank the breath of thy sigh,
And-compelled by hard fortune to sever,—
We parted in sadness--for ever!
What a host of remembrances rush
On my brain,—and my tears how they gush,
When in solitude's hour I dwell
On thy wild but prophetic farewell!
Yes, for ever, thou saidst, though I deemed
Fortune kinder, perchance, than she seemed;
And, chiding thy fears with a kiss,
Bade thee dim not those moments of bliss.
Even then death's dark web was around thee;
The spells of the spoiler had bound thee;
And the Angel from Heaven that brings
Fate's last fiat-was waving his wings,
We parted.-What pen may pourtray
The despair that o'ershadowed that day!
And even deeper our grief had been then,
Had we known we should meet not again!
We parted.—Long years have now passed
Since the hour that I gazed on thee last,
But, fresh in my memory yet,
Bloom the flowers of most mournful regret!
'Tis said, that for Sorrow's worst sting,
Time a swift-healing balsam can bring ;
That earth's ills all must own his dominion,
And recede when they're touched by his pinion!
Could the power of Oblivion control
All the gloom that oppresses my soul;
Could even Time, with his wing, interpose,
Aud freeze feeling's bright fount as it flows ;-
I would scorn the hard chain that must chill
In my bosom affection's fond thrill;
For the boon were ungrateful to me,
If it banished one sweet dream of thee!
But this thought shall afford me relief
In my moments of passion and grief,
That-whate'er be the depth of my woes-
They can never disturb thy repose!
No: the venom-dipped arrows of doom
Cannot pierce to thy heart through the tomb;
And though bitter, 'tis balm to my breast,
To know thou'rt for ever at rest!
No: the clouds that burst over me now
Cannot ruffle thy beautiful brow ;-
In its sorrows my soul may repine,
They can wake no wild echoes in thine!
Let the storms of adversity lour,
So that thou hast escaped from their power;
They may pour forth their wrath on my head;—
They can break not the sleep of the dead.
And the poison of Envy and Malice
May still farther embitter life's chalice;
But the cup, with a smile, shall be quaffed,
Since thou liv'st not to share in the draught!
All that I saw returns upon my view,
All that I heard comes back upon my ear.
A VISION Cross'd me as I slept-
A vision unallied to pain;-
And in my day-dreams it has kept
Possession of my heart and brain;
It is a portion of my soul,
And, if the soul may never die,
That vision now is past controul,
And shares its immortality.
It took a form that time may change
In other's eyes, but not in mine:
For coldness-hate cannot estrange
My still unshaken heart from thine.
I saw, thee then, as I have seen
The cherish'd one of earlier years,
Ere pale suspicion came between
Our hearts-and poison'd both with fears.
I heard thee speak, and felt the tone
Of welcome o'er my spirit steal;
As if our souls had never known
What those who part in coldness feel.
Thy hand to mine in fondness clung,
And, when I met its thrilling press,
I almost deem'd it had a tongue,
And whisper'd love and happiness.
'Tis said, that dreams may herald truth;
But dreams like these are worse than vain,
For what can bring back wither'd youth,
Or love's unshaded hours again?
They do but mock us-giving scope
To joys from which we wake and part,
And then are lost the hues of Hope-
The rainbow of the clouded heart.
They are the spirits of the past
That haunt the chambers of the mind;
Recalling thoughts too sweet to last,
And leaving blank despair behind.
They are like trees from stranger bow'rs,
Transplanted trees that take not root-
Young buds that never come to flow'rs-
Frail blossoms that ne'er turn to fruit.
They are like demons who would bring
The nectar that might tempt to sip,
And yell in triumph as they fling
The goblet from our fever'd lip. They are like Ocean's faithless calm, That with a breath is roused to strifeOr hollow friendship's proffer'd balm That poisons all the springs of life.
I thought we met at silent night,
And roam'd as we were wont to roam, And pictur'd with a fond delight,
The pleasures of our future home. That home our hearts may never share'Tis lost to both for ever now; The tree of hope lies wither'd-bareWithout a blossom, leaf, or bough.
To words-vain words-no pow'r is giv'n,
The torments of my soul to tell;
I slept-and had a dream of heav'n-
I woke and felt the pangs of hell.
Yet, I would not forget thee-No!
Tho' thou hast wither'd hope in me-
Nor for a world of joys forego
The one sweet joy of loving thee.
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