TO FLORENCE. LONG years have passed with silent pace Sad token by thy love devised, Is all the record left of one 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 With distant hopes of future weal; O'er desert sand and thorny brake, In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, I looked upon the gift, and sighed : And when on ocean or on clift Forth strode the Spirit of the storm, I thought upon thy fading form; And of a heart-still all thine own, Art laid in that unconscious sleep Which he that wails thee soon must know, Where none may smile, 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! Over the stillness of my tomb; And there the scutcheon shall not shine, Would ill become a lover's grave; (1820.) MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. CARTHAGE, I love thee! thou hast run— As I-a warlike race; And now thy glory's radiant sun Hath veiled in clouds his face : Thy days of pride-as mine-depart ; As he whose sullen footstep falls To-night around thy crumbling walls. And Rome hath heaped her woes and pains Alike on me and thee; And thou dost sit in servile chains,— Free in the pride that scorns his foe, And bares the head to meet the blow. |