And if he breathes Love's hopes and fears

In many a soulless idol's shrine, The falsehoods fit for vulgar ears

Were never fit for thine.

Take back, take back the book to-night: Thou art too brightly-nobly fair,

For hearts so worn as his to write

Their worthless worship there.

FEBRUARY 20, 1830.

SECOND LOVE.

"L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois : c'est la première. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires !"-LA BRUYÈRE.

How shall he woo her ?-Let him stand

Beside her as she sings;

And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o'er the quivering strings:
And let him tell her he has heard,
Though sweet the music flow,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was sweeter, long ago.

How shall he woo her ?—Let him gaze

In sad and silent trance

On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance :

And let him tell her, eyes more bright,

Though bright her own may beam,

Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon him in his dream.

How shall he woo her?-Let him try
The charms of olden time,

And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme :
And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,

He was not half so eloquent,—
He could not speak for tears!

How shall he woo her?-Let him bow
Before the shrine in prayer;
And bid the priest pronounce the vow
That hallows passion there :

And let him tell her, when she parts
From his unchidden kiss,

That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away! the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love's toil, I know, is little cost,
Love's perjury is light sin;

But souls that lose what his hath lost,--
Oh what have they to win?

A RETROSPECT.

"The Lady of his love, oh, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul!"-BYRON.

"Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne

Of innocence and sanctity in Heaven."-FORD.

I KNEW that it must be !

Yea, thou art changed-all worshipped as thou artMourned as thou shalt be! sickness of the heart

Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale

A piteous tale of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,—
Beauteous, and yet so pale.

Changed Love!-but not alone!

I am not what they think me; though my cheek
Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak
Thus in my natural tone.

The temple of my youth

Was strong in moral purpose; once I felt
The glory of Philosophy, and knelt
In the pure shrine of Truth.

I went into the storm,

And mocked the billows of the tossing sea:
I said to Fate, "What wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm !".

Vainly the heart is steeled

In Wisdom's armour; let her burn her books!

I look

upon them as the soldier looks

Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest

How have they perished! through my onward course
Repentance dogs my footsteps: black Remorse
Is my familiar guest.

The glory and the glow

Of the world's loveliness have past away;
And Fate hath little to inflict to-day,
And nothing to bestow.

Is not the damning line

Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?

And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow

Hath it not blasted mine?