And burst the bond whose fetters bound me,
And broke the spell that hung around me,
Recall'd the heart that madly roved,
And bade me love, and be beloved.
Who was it broke the chain and spell?
Dark-eyed Castilian!-thou canst tell!
And am I faithless ?--wo the while,
What vow but melts at Rosa's smile?
For broken vows, and faith betrayed,
The guilt is thine, Castilian maid!
The tale is told and I am gone
Think of me, loved and lovely one,
When none on earth shall care beside
How Carlos lived, or loved, or died!
Thy love on earth shall be to me
A bird upon a leafless tree-
A bark upon a hopeless wave-
A lily on a tombless grave—
A cheering hope-a living ray,
To light me on a weary way.
And thus is Love's Confession done;
Give me thy parting benison;
And ere I rise from bended knee,
To wander o'er a foreign sea,
Alone and friendless,--ere I don
My pilgrim's hat, and sandal shoon-
Dark-eyed Castilian! let me win
Forgiveness sweet for venial sin;
Let lonely sighs and dreams of thee,
Be penance for my perjury.
PREPARING FOR THE FIRST SEASON IN TOWN.
JULIA, while London's fancied bliss
Bids you despise a life like this,
For hopes, that flatter to deceive,
You will not scornfully refuse,
(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,)
To look upon my line, and hear
What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear.
Four miles from Town, a neat abode
O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road;
A paling, clean'd with constant care,
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre,
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl
Five inches up the whiten'd wall.
The open window thickly set
With myrtle, and with mignionette,
Behind whose cultivated row
A brace of globes peep out for show;
-the burnish'd plate,
That decks the would-be rustic gate, Denote the fane where Fashion dwells, -"Lyce's Academy for Belles."
'Twas here, in earlier, happier days,
Retired from pleasure's weary maze,
You found, unknown to care or pain,
The peace you will not find again.
Here Friendships, far too fond to last,
A bright, but fleeting radiance cast,
On every sport that Mirth devised,
And every scene that Childhood prized,
And every bliss, that bids you yet
Recall those moments with regret.
Those friends have mingled in the strife
That fills the busy scene of life,
And Pride and Folly-Cares and Fears,
Look dark upon their future years:
But by their wrecks may Julia learn,
Whither her fragile bark to turn;
And, o'er the troubled sea of fate,
Avoid the rocks they found too late.
You know Camilla-o'er the plain
She guides the fiery hunter's rein;
First in the chace she sounds the horn,
Trampling to earth the farmer's corn,
That hardly deign'd to bend its head,
Beneath her namesake's lighter tread.
With Bob the Squire, her polish'd lover,
She wields the gun, or beats the cover;
And then her steed!-why! every clown
Tells how she rubs Smolensko down,
And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof,
While wondering hostlers stand aloof.
At night, before the Christmas fire
She plays backgammon with the Squire;
Shares in his laugh, and his liquor,
Mimics her father and the Vicar;
Swears at the grooms-without a blush
Dips in her ale the captured brush,
Until
her father duly tired—
The parson's wig as duly fired-
The dogs all still the Squire asleep,
And dreaming of his usual leap
She leaves the dregs of white and red,
And lounges languidly to bed;
And still in nightly visions borne,
She gallops o'er the rustic's corn;
Still wields the lash-still shakes the box,
Dreaming of "sixes "—and the fox.
And this is bliss-the story runs,
Camilla never wept-save once;
Yes! once indeed Camilla cried-
'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died.
Pretty Cordelia thinks she's ill
She seeks her med'cine at Quadrille ;
With hope, and fear, and envy sick,
She gazes on the dubious trick,
As if eternity were laid
Upon a diamond, or a spade.
And I have seen a transient pique
Wake, o'er that soft and girlish cheek,
A chilly and a feverish hue,
Blighting the soil where Beauty grew,
And bidding Hate and Malice rove
that ought to beam with love.
Turn we to Fannia-she was fair
As the soft fleeting forms of air,
Shaped by the fancy-fitting theme
For youthful bard's enamor'd dream.
The neck, on whose transparent glow,
The auburn ringlets sweetly flow,
The eye that swims in liquid fire,
The brow that frowns in playful ire;
All these, when Fannia's early youth
Look'd lovely in its native truth,
Diffused a bright, unconscious grace,
Almost divine, o'er form and face.
Her lip has lost its fragrant dew,
Her cheek has lost its rosy hue,
Her eye the glad enlivening rays
That glitter'd there in happier days,
Her heart the ignorance of wo
Which Fashion's votaries may not know.
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