TO FLORENCE. LONG years have passed with silent pace, And unremembered-save by thee! Sad token by thy love devised, So long bewailed-so dearly prized. You gave it in an hour of grief, When gifts of love are doubly dear; You gave it and one tender leaf Glistened the while with Beauty's tear. A tear-oh, lovelier far to me, Shed for me in my saddest hour, Than bright and flattering smiles could be, In courtly hall or summer bower. You strove my anguish to beguile, O'er desert sand and thorny brake, In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, I looked upon the gift—and sighed : I thought upon thy fading form; And of a heart-still all thine own, Which he that wails thee soon must know, Where none may sinile 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 favourite tree, Is to my desolated heart Almost as dear as thou couldst be. My Florence!-soon-the thought is sweet! I will not have the cypress gloom Over the stillness of my tomb: And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine, (1820.) MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. CARTHAGE! I love thee! thou hast As I, a warlike race; run, And now thy Glory's radiant sun As he whose sullen footstep falls And Rome hath heaped her woes and paine Alike on me and thee; And thou dost sit in servile chains, But mine they shall not be! Free,-in the pride that scorns his foe, 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 my curse-as now; I scorn, I hate thee-Rome! My voice is weak to word and threat- 11821.) EDWARD MORTON. "NOVEMBER 26.-Heard of the death of poor Morton. If Since his ever man died of love, it was Edward Morton. 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. I. 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! |