Page images


Он how hard it is to find

The one just suited to our mind;
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,

And sing Woe's me-Woe 's me!

Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,

And still more seldom flee

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;

Yet somehow Love a something brings

That's sweet-ev'n when we sigh Woe's me!


EARL MARCH look'd on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her— The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover ;

And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower, And she look'd on her lover-

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling.

And am I then forgot-forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes

To lift their silken lashes.


"Tis not the loss of love's assurance,

It is not doubting what thou art, But 'tis the too, too long endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,

The pain without the peace of death!

« PreviousContinue »