And felt thy timid, mild caress, I was all hope-all joyousness! We parted, and the morrow's sun-
Oh God!—my bliss was past and done : The lover's hope, the husband's vow—
Where were they then ah! where wert thou?
Mary! thou vision loved and wept,—
Long years have passed since thou hast slept, Removed from gaze of mortal eye,
The dreamless sleep of those that die. Long years!-yet has not passed away The memory of that fatal day,
When all thy young and faded grace Before me lay in Death's embrace.
A throb of madness and of pain
Shot through my heart, and through my brain; I felt it then, I feel it now,
Though time is stamped upon my brow, Though all my veins grow cold with age, And o'er my memory's fading page Oblivion draws her damning line, And blots all images-save thine.
Thou left'st me—and I did become An alien from my house and home,
A phantom in life's busy dream,
A bubble on misfortune's stream,
Condemned through varying scenes to rove, With nought to hope—and nought to love; No inward motive that can give
Or fear to die, or wish to live.
Away, away! Death rides the breeze! There is no time for thoughts like these. Hark! from the foeman's distant camp, I hear their chargers' sullen tramp: On, valiant Britons, to the fight! On, for St. George and England's right! Green be the laurel, bright the meed, Of those that shine in martial deed: Short be the pang, swift pass the breath, Of those that die a soldier's death!
"Busy people, great and small, Awkward dancers, short and tall, Ladies, fighting which shall call, Loungers, pertly quizzing all."
THIS is a night of pleasure! Care, I shake thee from me! do not dare To stir from out thy murky cell, Where in their dark recesses dwell Thy kindred gnomes, who love to nip The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip, Until beneath their venomed breath Life wears the pallid hue of death. Avaunt! I shake thee from me, Care! The gay, the youthful, and the fair, From Lodge, and Court, and House, and Hall, Are hurrying to the County Ball.
Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground;
And giddy Pleasure draws around To shield us from thine envious spite Her magic circle! nought to-night
Over that guarded barrier flies But laughing lips and smiling eyes; My look shall gaze around me free, And like my look my line shall be; While fancy leaps in every vein, While love is life, and thought is pain, I will not rule that look and line By any word or will of thine.
The Moon hath risen. Still and pale Thou movest in thy silver veil, Queen of the night! the filmy shroud Of many a mild transparent cloud Hides, yet adorns thee; meet disguise To shield thy blush from mortal eyes. Full many a maid hath loved to gaze Upon thy melancholy rays;
And many a fond despairing youth Hath breathed to thee his tale of truth; And many a luckless rhyming wight
Hath looked upon thy tender light, And spilt his precious ink upon it, In ode, or elegy, or sonnet. Alas! at this inspiring hour, I feel not, I, thy boasted power, Nor seek to gain thine approbation By vow, or prayer, or invocation;
I ask not what the vapours are That veil thee like a white cymar, Nor do I care a single straw For all the stars I ever saw!
I fly from thee, I fly from these, To bow to earthly goddesses,
Whose forms in mortal beauty shine, As fair, but not so cold, as thine.
But this is foolish! Stars and Moon, You look quite beautiful in June; But when a bard sits down to sing, Your beauty is a dangerous thing; To muse upon your placid beam One wanders sadly from one's theme, And when weak poets go astray,
"The stars are more in fault than they." The moon is charming; so, perhaps, Are pretty maidens in mob-caps; But, when a ball is in the case, They're both a little out of place.
I love a ball! there's such an air Of magic in the lustres' glare, And such a spell of witchery In all I hear and all I see, That I can read in every dance Some relic sweet of old romance:
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