Are you to wait till you're of age? Or are you to be his to-morrow? Or are you married to another? Whate'er you are, at last, adieu! I think it is your bounden duty Be prized by all who prize your beauty. THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. "And none did love him--not his lemans dear.”—Byron. No mistress of the hidden skill, No wizard gaunt and grim, The merriest girl in all the land Bestowed upon his brow and hand "I bind thee with a spell," said she, No woman's love shall light on thee, "And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek Nor that thine eye is slow to speak For many a cheek of paler white Hath caught its fire from bliss; And while the young stars shine, "And 'tis not that thy spirit, awed By Beauty's numbing spell, Shrinks from the force or from the fraud Which Beauty loves so well; For thou hast learned to watch, and wake, And thou art very bold to take I cannot tell;--the charm was wrought By other threads than mine; The lips are lightly begged or bought,- "Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be That ever Beauty wore; And one shall give-perchance hath given--- If she shall meet thee in the bower, O wear the ring and guard the flower! "Go, set thy boat before the blast, Or muse upon thy country's laws, And patriot hands shall sound applause, And lovely lips be mute. Go, dig the diamond from the wave, The treasure from the mine; Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,- "I charm thee from the agony Which others feel or feign; From anger, and from jealousy, From doubt, and from disdain; And curl the lip at Passion's tears, Be thou from woman's love as free (1825.) JOSEPHINE. We did not meet in courtly hall, We met where darker spirits meet, And she knew she could not be, Love, What once she might have been, But she was kind to me, Love, My pretty Josephine. VOL. II.-11 We did not part beneath the sky, As warmer lovers part, Where Night conceals the glistening eye, But merrily rides my bark, Love— She did not speak of ring or vow, And took the roses from her brow And bade me, when the gale should lift To think as little of the gift "Go gayly o'er the sea, Love, And find your own heart's queen; And look not back to me, Love, Your humble Josephine!" That garland breathes and blooms no more, Past are those idle hours; I would not, could I choose, restore |