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Where none may smile, and none may weep,
None dream of bliss, nor wake to woe. If e’er, as Fancy oft will feign,
To that dear spot which gave thee birth Thy fleeting shade returns again,
To look on him thou lov’dst on earth, It may a moment's joy impart,
To know that this, thy favorite tree,
Almost as dear as thou could'st be.
The turf that wraps thee I shall press;
In bliss—or in forgetfulness. With thee in Death's oblivion laid,
I will not have the cypress gloom
Over the stillness of my tomb:
And there the banner shall not wave;
Would ill become a lover's grave: But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam, Thy myrtle, that has cheer'd my life
Shall decorate my narrow home : And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day; Or, nipp'd by cold December's air,
Wither-like Hope and thee--away. (1820.)
MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CAR
Carthage! I love thee! thou hast run,
As I, a warlike race;
Hath veiled in clouds his face ;
A thing as nobly base
And Rome hath heaped her woes and pains
Alike on me and thee;
But mine they shall not be!
Marius shall still be free,
I wear not yet thy slavery's vest,
As desolate I roam ;
And though the sword were at my breast,
The torches in my home,
I scorn, I hate thee—Rome!
"NOVEMBER 26.—Heard of the death of poor Morton. If ever man died of love, it was Edward Morton. Since his death, a small collection of poems, written by him at different periods of his life, has been put into my hands; which I shall insert from time to time, with the signature ‘E. M.'”—The Etonian, vol. i., pp. 313, 374.
In my heart's summer echoing through me;
And still its sounds were precious to me;
I will not love thee! I am taught
To shun the dream on which I doted,
On which its dearest vision floated;
Alas! the love indeed is gone,
But still I feel its melancholy;
That stifled all my youthful folly,
Took but away the guilt of sin,
Adieu ! if thou hadst seen the heart
The silly heart thou wert beguiling, Thou wouldst not have inflamed the smart
With all thy bright, unconscious smiling; Thou wouldst not so have fanned the blaze That grew beneath those quiet rays !
Nay, it was well!—for smiles like this
Delayed at least my bosom's fever ! Nay, it was well, since hope and bliss
Were fleeting quickly, and forever, To snatch them as they passed away, And meet the anguish all to-day!
I do not weep; the grief I feel
Is not the grief that dims the eye; No accents speak, no tears reveal
The inward pain that cannot die.
Mary! thou know'st not--none can know
The silent woe that still must live; I would not change that silent woe
For all the joy the world can give.