My unrequited tenderness Living on its own sweet excess. I blushed to think that thou might'st hear That with the words a thought might steal On to my tale it tells of one Who loved not more than I have done : Turns like the floweret to the sun, Although its gift of light and air The moon hath shed her gentlest light The various grapes, some like the stone And others like the amber streak Pale on the fading twilight's cheek; And others glistening and green, As yet by summer suns unseen. And where the soft grass spreads, just meet For the light tread of maiden's feet, And where the chesnut's trunk seems made And well it might her shadow be, With its dark leaves, and lonely weeping, As if some lovelorn secret keeping. Just there the thicker boughs gave way, And dale, wood, heath, before her lay; It came at last, the gallant train, And hound, hawk, horseman, swept the plain. There rode the leader of the band, His hooded falcon on his hand; Which held the broidered rein beside, Curbing his foam-white courser's pride; And carelessly on one side flung The drooping heron feathers hung Of the light cap, while the soft air And parted them enough to show The forehead's height of mountain snow. A lover's step is on the wind; And he is by the maiden's side, Whose eye is drooped, as if to hide Like one of those sweet visions sent To the young bard, when tones that weep In that Italian gallery, where The painter and the sculptor share The small hands on the throbbing breast. The same bowed attitude, so meek! Oh, misery, that love should seek A temple made so pure, so fair, To leave his wreck and ruin there! "CHRISTINE, my own CHRISTINE;"—she felt The words upon her flushed cheek melt: She met his radiant eyes-to-night Surely some cloud is on their light ;— And then she heard of his recall From green woods to his father's hall. At least the eloquence of love. But still she wept: Oh! not for me To wish or hope fidelity! And threw it round her" See how slight Yet try, CHRISTINE, and all in vain,— The strength of absent constancy; And even as all changed around, The change in his own heart was found; Who soonest won a lady's ear With soft words, wandering amid many, And true to none, yet vowed to any. 'Tis ever thus ;-alas! there clings The curse of change to earthly things ;- A cloud steals over April skies, Tides turn their course, stars fall, winds range, But more than all these, love will change. Not so CHRISTINE,-day after day, She watched and wept o'er hope's decay : At last hope died, she felt it vain To hope or dream of hope again. It was one noon she chanced to look On the clear mirror of the brook, |