Farewell, farewell!-thou wilt not know
My hopes or fears, my weal or woe,
My home-perhaps my grave!
Nor think nor dream of the sad heart
Whose only thought and dream thou art.
The goblet went untasted by,
Which other lips caressed;
And joyless seemed the revelry,
And impotent the jest:
And why? for it was very long
Since thou didst prize my love or song,
My lot was all unblest:
I cannot now be more forlorn,
Nor bear aught that I have not borne.
We might not meet; for me no more
Arose that melting tone;
The eyes which colder crowds adore,
Were veiled to me alone:
The coxcomb's prate, the ruffian's lies,
The censures of the sternly wise,
Between our hearts were thrown;
Deeper and wider barriers far,
Than any waves or deserts are.
But it was something still to know
Thy dawn and dusk were mine,
And that we felt the same breeze blow,
And saw the same star shine:
And still the shadowy hope was rife
That once in this waste weary life
My path might cross with thine,
And one brief gleam of beauty bless
My spirit's utter loneliness.
And oft in crowds I might rejoice
To hear thy uttered name,
Though haply from an unknown voice
The welcome echo came:
How coldly would I shape reply,
With lingering lip, and listless eye,
That none might doubt or blame,
Or guess that idle theme could be
A mine of after-thought to me!
Oh, ne'er again!-thou wilt abide
Where brighter skies are found,
One whom thou lovest by thy side,
Many who love thee round;
And those sweet fairies, with their wiles
Of mimic frowns and happy smiles,
Around thy steps will bound:
I would not cloud such scene and lot
For all my aching breast hath not.
Yet, if thou wilt remember one
Who never can forget,
Whose lonely life is not so lone
As if we had not met,
Believe that in the frosty sky
Whereon is writ his destiny,
Thy light is lingering yet,
A star before the darkened soul,
To guide, and gladden, and control.
Be mine the talk of men, though thou
Wilt never hear my praise;
Be mine the wreath, though for my brow
Thou wilt not twine the bays;
Be mine ambition's proudest scope,
Though fewer smiles than were my hope
Will meet my longing gaze,
Though in my triumph's sunniest thrill
One welcome will be wanting still.
Perchance, when long, long years are o'er-
I care not how they flow-
Some note of me to that far shore
Across the deep may go;
And thou wilt read, and turn to hide
The conscious blush of woman's pride;
For thou alone wilt know
What spell inspired the silent toil
Of mid-day sun and midnight oil.
And this is little, to atone
For much of grief and wrong; For doubts within the bosom sown, Cares checked and cherished long.
But it is past! thy bliss or pain
I shall not mar or make again;
And, Lady, this poor song
Is echoing, like a stranger's knell,
Sad, but unheeded!-so farewell!
BLAME not the Minstrel's wayward will:
His soul has slumbered all too long;
He has no pulse for passion's thrill,
No lute for passion's song.
Oh, frown not, though he turns away
Unloved, unloving, even from thee,
And mars with idle jests the lay
Where Beauty's praise should be.
If he should bid the golden string
Be vocal to a loftier theme,
Sad Memory from her cell would bring
The fond forbidden dream;
The dream of her, whose broken chain
Than new-forged bonds is far more dear;
Whose name he may not speak again,
And shudders but to hear.
And if he breathes Love's hopes and fears
In many a soulless idol's shrine,
The falsehoods fit for vulgar ears
Were never fit for thine.
Take back, take back the book to-night:
Thou art too brightly-nobly fair,
For hearts so worn as his to write
Their worthless worship there.
"L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la première. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires !"—La Bruyere.
How shall he woo her?-Let him stand
Beside her as she sings,
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o'er the quivering strings:
And let him tell her he has heard,
Though sweet the music flow,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was sweeter, long ago.
How shall he woo her?-Let him gaze
In sad and silent trance
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