IV..

I SAW thee wedded-thou didst go
Within the sacred aisle,

Thy young cheek in a blushing glow
Betwixt a tear and smile.

Thy heart was glad in maiden glee,
But he it loved so fervently

Was faithless all the while;

I hate him for the vow he spoke—
I hate him for the vow he broke.

I hid the love that could not die,
Its doubts, and hopes, and fears,
And buried all my misery

In secrecy and tears;

And days passed on, and thou didst prove

The pang of unrequited love

E'en in thine early years;

And thou didst die-so fair and good

In silence, and in solitude!

While thou wert living, I did hide

Affection's secret pains :

I'd not have shocked thy modest pride
For all the world contains;

But thou hast perished, and the fire
That, often checked, could ne'er expire,
Again unhidden reigns:

It is no crime to speak my vow,
For ah! thou canst not hear it now.

Thou sleepest 'neath thy lowly stone
That dark and dreamless sleep;
And he, thy loved and chosen one—
Why goes he not to weep?

He does not kneel where I have knelt;
He cannot feel what I have felt,

The anguish still and deep,

The painful thoughts of what has been,
The canker-worm that is not seen!

But I-as o'er the dark blue wave

Unconsciously I ride,

My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave

My soul is by thy side.

There is one voice that wails thee yet,

One heart that cannot e'er forget

The visions that have died;

And aye thy form is buried there—
A doubt an anguish-a despair!

(1820-1821.)

A CHILD'S GRAVE.

O'ER yon churchyard the storm may lower;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of scutcheon or of stone,
It rises o'er thee, lonely one,
Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as zephyr's breath,

Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded;

But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded, In the cold breeze of Death!

Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet!
But now decay hath stilled its glancing;
Warmly thy little heart was dancing,
But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months-and thou wert here!
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy memorial now?
A flower-and a tear!

(1821.)

A LETTER FROM ETON.

My dearest Cynthia,-if you knew
Half of the toil P. C. goes through,
You'd never dip your spiteful pen
In anger's bitter ink again,
Because the hapless author woos
No correspondent—save the Muse.

Was ever such a wretched elf?
I ha'n't a minute to myself!
My own and other people's cares
Are dinned incessant in my ears
I can't get rid of Mr. "Vapour,"
With all his silly "midnight taper ;”
Nor Mr. Musgrave's learned paper
"Diseases of the Hoof;"

E'en now, as thus I sit me down,
Scared by your thunder and your frown

Two Fiends are hid aloof;

Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipt ;

A Blockhead with a Manuscript,

A Devil with a Proof!