A tear-oh, lovelier far to me,

Shed for me in my saddest hour,

Than bright and flattering smiles could be,
In courtly hall or summer bower,
You strove my anguish to beguile,

With distant hopes of future weal;
You strove!-alas! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel.
I bore the gift Affection gave,

O'er desert sand and thorny brake,
O'er rugged rock and stormy wave,
I loved it for the giver's sake;
And often in my happiest day,

In scenes of bliss and hours of pride,
When all around was glad and gay,

I look'd upon the gift—and sigh'd: And when on ocean, or on clift,

Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm, I gazed upon thy fading gift,

I thought upon thy fading form;
Forgot the lightning's vivid dart,

Forgot the rage of sky and sea,
Forgot the doom that bade us part—
And only lived to love and thee.
Florence! thy myrtle blooms! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone,
Forgetful of our mutual vow,

And of a heart-still all thine own,

Art laid in that unconscious sleep,

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 favorite tree, Is to my desolated heart

Almost as dear as thou could'st be. My Florence!-soon--the thought is sweet! The turf that wraps thee I shall press; Again, my Florence! we shall meet, In bliss—or in forgetfulness. With thee in Death's oblivion laid, I will not have the cypress gloom To throw its sickly, sullen shade,

Over the stillness of my tomb:

And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave;
The treasures of the glittering mine
Would ill become a lover's grave:
But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam,
Thy myrtle, that has cheer'd my life
Shall decorate my narrow home :
And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day;
Or, nipp'd by cold December's air,
Wither-like Hope and thee--away.

(1820.)

MARIUS AMIDST THE RUINS OF CAR

THAGE.

Carthage! I love thee! thou hast run,

As I, a warlike race;

And now thy Glory's radiant sun
Hath veiled in clouds his face;
Thy days of pride-as mine-depart;
Thy gods desert thee, and thou art
A thing as nobly base

As he whose sullen footstep falls

To-night around thy crumbling walls.

And Rome hath heaped her woes and pains

Alike on me and thee

And thou dost sit in servile chains,-
But mine they shall not be!
Though fiercely o'er this aged head
The wrath of angry Jove is shed,
Marius shall still be free,

Free, in the pride that scorns his foe,
And bares the head to meet the blow.

I wear not yet thy slavery's vest,

As desolate I roam;

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-
My arm is strong to battle yet!

(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,
And tear my soul from every thought

On which its dearest vision floated;
And I have prayed to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the love indeed is gone,

But still I feel its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,
That stifled all my youthful folly,