You strove my anguish to beguile, O'er desert sand and thorny brake, In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm, 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 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, (1820.) MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. CARTHAGE! I love thee! thou hast run, And now thy Glory's radiant sun As he whose sullen footstep falls 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, I wear not yet thy slavery's vest, 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- (1821.) EDWARD MORTON. "NOVEMBER 26.-Heard of the death of poor Morton. If ever man died of love, it was Edward Morton. Since his 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! I will not love thee! I am taught To shun the dream on which I doted, On which its dearest vision floated; Alas! the love indeed is gone, But still I feel its melancholy; Adieu! if thou hadst seen the heart- With all thy bright, unconscious smiling; Thou wouldst not so have fanned the blaze That grew beneath those quiet rays! Nay, it was well!-for smiles like this Were fleeting quickly, and forever, |