But yet I played a game at their expense:
All creatures have some weapon of defence;
And so had I: with woman's keenness cursed,
I saw the heart; and seeing, thought the worst:
Suspected evil where I could not see;
And motives well were analysed by me.
Unnoticed, unsuspected, at my desk,
I loved to mark their manners and burlesque.
Amused, though vexed, to hear the loud pretence
Of some, who really had not half my sense:
-To find myself despised, and counted nought,
By those who nothing knew, and nothing thought.
I was not vain; nor need I this repeat;
There was enough to check my self-conceit!
But yet I knew, however low my lot,
I had a taste-a feeling, they had not.
Yes, taste I had; and now all earthly bliss Solace and refuge, seemed denied, but this :Shut from the world's delights by various bars I used to roam and revel 'mid the stars. Who could forbid the timid, bashful eye, Downcast by day, from ranging through the sky. When in my attic, with untold delight,
I watched the changing splendors of the night? Those hours were sweet; nor can it be denied, That with the pleasure, there was mingled pride. Kings-no, nor bankers, that to me was more, No brighter sight could see, with all their store. But stars and worlds of light, are not the things Most in esteem with bankers, or with kings. Such thoughts I had; and let it be confessed, The oppressor here, must yield to the oppressed.
While thought is free, howe'er enslaved the wretch, He has a circuit where no arm can stretch.
Thought has a power that makes the meanest drudge, At once the tyrant's censor, and his judge.
In milder moods I looked from side to side,
For better comfort than I gained from pride :-
"Is there no object more sublimely bright,
More worthy high pursuit, than worlds of light?
Is there no refuge for the poor oppressed?
For weary wanderers, is not there a rest?
Cast out of men-despised by all about,
Is there no friend who will not cast me out?”
WRITTEN AFTER READING" CORINNE OU L'ITALIE."
O WOMAN, greatly gifted! why
Wert thou not gifted from on high?
What had that noble genius done-
That knew all hearts-all things, but one,
-Had that been known? O, would it might
Be whispered, here she took her flight!
Where, where is that fine spirit hurled,
That seemed unmeet for either world?
While o'er thy magic page I bend,
I know thee-claim thee for my friend:
With thee a secret converse hold,
And see my inmost thoughts unfold.
Each notion crude, defined-expressed;
And certain, what I vaguely guessed.
And hast thou taught, with cruel skill,
The art to suffer better still:-
Grief's finest secret to explore,
Though understood too well before?
Ah well, I'd thank thee if I might;
Although so wrong, thou art so right!
While I condemn, my heart replies,
And deeper feelings sympathize.
Thy view of life-that painful view, How false it is!-and yet how true! 25
"Life without love-a cheerless strife;
Yet love so rarely given to life."
And why must truth and virtue, why,
This mighty claim of love deny?
-What was this earth, so full, so fair?—
A cheerless desert, bleak, and bare-
God knew it was-till love was there.
Say, has the heart a glance at bliss-
One-till it glance or gaze at this?
Ah no! unblessed, unsoothed the lot,
Fair though it seem, that knows it not !
"T is true!-and to the truth replies
A thousand joyless hearts and eyes ;—
Eyes beamless-hearts that do not break-
They cannot-but that always ache;
And slowly wither, day by day,
Till life at last is dried away.
"Love or Religion;” yes, she knew, Life has no choice but 'twixt the two: But when she sought that balm to find, She guessed and groped; but still was blind. Aloft she flew, yet failed to see
Aught but an earthly deity.
The humble Christian's holy love,
O, how it calmly soars above
These storms of passion!-Yes, too much
I've felt her talent's magic touch.
Return, my soul, to that retreat
From sin and wo-thy Savior's feet!
There learn an art she never knew,
The heart's own empire to subdue :—
A large, but willing sacrifice.
All to resign that He denies ;—
To him in meek submission bend;
Own Him an all-sufficient friend;
Here, and in holy worlds above,
My portion-and my only love!
September 23, 1822.
WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night,
That secret intelligent grace?
O why should I gaze with such tender delight,
On thy fair, but insensible face?
What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam,
Beyond the warm sunshine of day?
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream,
Where dances thy tremulous ray.
Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile,
Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?
Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile,
And loves thee almost as a friend?
The tear that looks bright in thy beam as it flows
Unmoved thou dost ever behold:
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
To thee it has never been told.
And yet thou dost soothe me, and ever I find,
While watching thy gentle retreat,
|