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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,
Is to my desolated heart

Almost as dear as thou could'st be.
My Florence !--soon--the thought is sweet!

The turf that wraps thee I shall press;
Again, my Florence ! we shall meet,

In bliss—or in forgetfulness. With thee in Death's oblivion laid,

I will not have the cypress gloom
To throw its sickly, sullen shade,

Over the stillness of my tomb:
And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine,

And there the banner shall not wave;
The treasures of the glittering mine

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.)



Carthage! I love thee! thou hast run,

As I, a warlike race;
And now thy Glory's radiant sun

Hath veiled in clouds his face ;
Thy days of pride—as mine-depart;
Thy gods desert thee, and thou art

A thing as nobly base
As he whose sullen footstep falls
* To-night around thy crumbling walls.

And Rome hath heaped her woes and pains

Alike on me and thee;
And thou dost sit in servile chains,-

But mine they shall not be!
Though fiercely o'er this aged head
The wrath of angry Jove is shed,

Marius shall still be free,
Free,-in the pride that scorns his foe,
And bares the head to meet the blow.

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,
Still—still, for orison and vow,
I'd fling them back iny curse—as now;

I scorn, I hate thee—Rome!
My voice is weak to word and threat-
My arm is strong to battle yet!



"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.

THERE was a voice-a foolish voice-

In my heart's summer echoing through me;
It bade me hope, it bade rejoice,

And still its sounds were precious to me;
But thou hast plighted that deep vow,
And it were sin to love thee now!

I will not love thee! I am taught

To shun the dream on which I doted,
And tear my soul from every thought

On which its dearest vision floated;
And I have prayed to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the love indeed is gone,

But still I feel its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,

That stifled all my youthful folly,

Took but away the guilt of sin,
And left me all its pain within.

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.

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