And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;
Alas! I meant it for thy hair,
And now I fling it on thy tomb,
To weep and wither there!
Fare ye well, fare ye well!
Sleep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,
Droop, droop, to-night, thou blushing token;
A fairer flower shall never fade,
Nor a fonder heart be broken!
Clotilda! many hearts are light,
And many lips dissemble;
But I am thine till priests shall fight,
Or Cœur de Lion tremble !-
Hath Jerome burned his rosary,
Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?
Oh! no, no,
But till you mean your hopes to die,
Engrave them not in water!
Sweet Ida, on my lonely way
Those tears I will remember,
Till icicles shall cling to May,
Or roses to December -
Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer's brow?
Is drowsy Winter waking?
Oh no, no,
Dream not so !
But lances, and a lover's vow,
Were only made for breaking.
Lenora, I am faithful still,
By all the saints that listen,
Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,
Or these wild veins to glisten!-
This bosom, is its pulse less high?
Or sleeps the storm within it?
Oh no, no,
Dream not so !
But lovers find eternity
In less than half a minute.
And thus to thee I swear to-night,
By thine own lips and tresses,
That I will take no further flight,
Nor break again my jesses:
And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,
And dream in spite of warning?
Oh! no, no,
But go and lure the midnight cloud,
Or chain the mist of morning.
These words of mine, so false and bland,
Forget that they were spoken !
The ring is on thy radiant hand,—
Dash down the faithless token!
And will they say that Beauty sinned,
That Woman turned a rover ?
Oh no, no,
But lovers' vows are like the wind-
And Vidal is a Lover.
I HAVE a tale of Love to tell ;—
Lend me thy light lute, L. E. L.
Lend me thy lute! what other strings
Should speak of those delicious things,
Which constitute Love's joys and woes
In pretty duodecimos ?
Thou knowest every herb and flower,
Of wondrous name, and wondrous power,
Which, gathered where white wood-doves nestle,
And beat up by poetic pestle,
Bind gallant knights in fancied fetters,
And set young ladies writing letters:
Thou singest songs of floods and fountains,
Of mounted lords and lordly mountains,
Of dazzling shields and dazzling glances,
Of piercing frowns and piercing lances,
Of leaping brands and sweeping willows,
Of dreading seas and dreaming billows,
Of sunbeams which are like red wine,
Of odorous lamps of argentine,
Of cheeks that burn, of hearts that freeze,
Of odours that send messages,
Of king-fishers and silver pheasants,
Of gems to which the sun makes presents,
Of miniver and time-worn walls,
Of clairschachs and of atabals.
Within thy passion haunted pages
Throng forward girls-and distant ages,
The lifeless learns at once to live,
The dumb grows strangely talkative,
Resemblances begin to strike
In things exceedingly unlike,
All nouns, like statesmen, suit all places,
And verbs, turned lawyers, hunt for cases.
Oh! if it be a crime to languish,
Over thy scenes of bliss or anguish,
To float with Raymond o'er the sea,
To sigh with dark-eyed Rosalie,
And sit in reverie luxurious
Till tea turns cold, and aunts grow furious,
I own the soft impeachment true,
And burn the Westminster Review.
Lend me thy lute; I'll be a poet;
All Paternoster Row shall know it!
I'll rail in rhyme at cruel Fate
From Temple Bar to Tyburn Gate;
Old Premium's daughter in the City
Shall feel that love is kin to pity,
Hot ensigns shall be glad to borrow
My notes of rapture and of sorrow,
And I shall hear sweet voices sighing,
"So young!—and I am told he's dying!
Yes! I shall wear a wreath eternal,
For full twelve months, in Post and Journal,
Admired by all the Misses Brown,
Who go to school at Kentish Town,
And worshipped by the fair Arachne,
Who makes my handkerchiefs at Hackney!
Vain, vain!-take back the lute! I see
Its chords were never meant for me.
For thine own song, for thine own hand,
That lute was strung in Fairy-land;
And if a stranger's thumb should fling
Its rude touch o'er one golden string,—
Good night to all the music in it!
The string would crack in half a minute.
Take back the lute! I make no claim
To inspiration or to fame;
The hopes and fears that bards should cherish,
I care not when they fade and perish;
I read political economy,
Voltaire and Cobbett, and gastronomy,
And, when I would indite a story,
Of woman's faith or warrior's glory,
I always wear a night-cap sable,
And put my elbows on the table,
And hammer out the tedious toil,
By dint of Walker and lamp-oil.
I never feel poetic mania,
I gnaw no laurel with Urania,
I court no critic's tender mercies,
I count the feet in all my verses,
And own myself a screaming gander
Among the shrill swans of Menander !
WHEN Some mad bard sits down to muse
About the lilies and the dews,
The grassy vales and sloping lawns,
Fairies and Satyrs, Nymphs and Fauns,
He's apt to think, he's apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere
Except is some sequestered village
Where peasants live on truth and tillage,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who frisk through dells and ditches,
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
|