Or deck with bloom, when Hope is bare,

And Pleasure's wreaths are serest, Of all dead flowers, so dear and fair,

The fairest and the dearest,

VIII.

If, when my lute in other days
Is silent or unheeded,

I would revive one voice, whose praise
Was all the fame it needed,-

If, when false Friendship has betrayed.
Or fickle Love deceived me,

My heart would cling to one soft shade
Which could not so have grieved me,-

IX.

In bower or banquet, heath or hill,
The form I seek will glisten;
Again the liquid voice will thrill,
The fair face bend to listen:
But whatsoe'er the hour or place,

No bribe or prayer shall win me
To say whose voice, or form, or face
That spell awoke within me!

VOL. I.-18

THE PORTRAIT.

Он, yes! these lips are very fair,
Half lifted to the sky,

As if they breathed an angel's prayer
Mixed with a mortal's sigh;

But theirs is not the song that flings
O'er evening's still imaginings

Its cherished witchery;

No, these are not the lips whose tone Sad Memory has made her own.

And these long curls of dazzling brown In many a fairy wreath

Float brightly, beautifully, down

Upon the brow beneath;

But these are not the locks of jet
For which I sought the violet

On that remembered heath;

No, these are not the locks that glean Around me in my moonlight dream.

And these blue eyes-a very saint
Might envy their pure rays-
Are such as limners learn to paint,
And poets long to praise;

But theirs is not the speaking glance
On which, in all its young romance,

My spirit loves to gaze;

No, these are not the eyes that shine,
Like never-setting stars, on mine.

By those sweet songs I hear to-night,
Those black locks on the brow,
And those dark eyes, whose living light
Is beaming o'er me now,

I worship naught but what thou art!
Let all that was-decay-depart,

I care not when or how;

And fairer far these hues may be,-
They seem not half so fair to me!

(1825)

ΤΟ

I.

STILL is the earth, and still the sky;
The midnight moon is fleeting by;

And all the world is wrapped in sleep,

But the hearts that love, and the eyes that weep.

II.

And now is the time to kiss the flowers Which shun the sunbeam's busy hours; For the book is shut, and the mind is free To gaze on them, and to think of thee.

III.

Withered they are and pale in sooth;
So are the radiant hopes of youth;
But Love can give with a single breath
Bloom to languor, and life to death.

IV.

Though I must greet thee with a tone
As calm to-morrow as thine own,
Oh! Fancy's vision, Passion's vow,
May be told in stillness and darkness now!

V.

For the veil from the soul is rent away Which it wore in the glare of gaudy day; And more, much more, the heart may feel Than the pen may write or the lip reveal.

VI.

Why can I not forego-forget

That ever I loved thee-that ever we met? There is not a single link or sign

To blend my lot in the world with thine:

VII.

I know not the scenes where thou hast roved, I see not the faces which thou hast loved,-Thou art to me as a pleasant dream

Of a boat that sails on a distant stream.

VIII.

Thou smilest! I am glad the while,

But I share not the joy that bids thee smile;
Thou grievest! when thy grief is deepest,

I weep, but I know not for whom thou weepest.

IX.

I would change life's Spring for his roughest

weather,

If we might bear the storm together;
And give my hopes for half thy fears,
And sell my smiles for half thy tears.

X.

Give me one common bliss or woe,
One common friend, one common foe,
On the earth below, or the clouds above,
One thing we both may loathe, or love.

XI.

It may not be; but yet-but yet
Oh, deem not I can e'er forget!
For fondness such as mine supplies
The sympathy which Fate denies :