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That dwelt in every silver tone
She drew from each sweet string : Oh! no,-the songs she made her own
I will not hear them sing !
The songs she sung—the songs she sung!
How few and faint the words
Her fingers o'er the chords ;
Died on the quivering air,
And lips were quivering there !
Long, grieving years are fled, Earth's yearnings from the heart are flung,
Earth's hopes are with the dead; And worldly wrongs—forgot-forgiven
Sleep in Death's second birth; But I would only hear in Heaven
The songs she gave to earth !
I weave these rambling numbers,
And can't compose my slumbers;
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,
Some witchery o'er my dreaming !
Because we've passed some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances; Because you love old Beaumont's plays,
And old Froissart's romances ! Because, whene'er I hear your words,
Some pleasant feeling lingers ; Because I think your heart has chords
That vibrate to my fingers !
Because you've got those long, soft curls
I've sworn should deck my goddess; Because you're not, like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and bodice ! Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy ; Because a little child and you
Would make one's home so cosy!
Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny ;Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
A waltz, with me to guide you,
And a coronet beside you !
Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting; Because you have not learned to talk
Of flowers and Poonah-painting ;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;
To dine on simple mutton !
As, some of those fine morrows,
My story—and my sorrows :
A matter quickly over,
Ard a chaise-and-four for Dover!
DEAR minstrel, the dangers are not to be told
Of those strains which have trebly undone me, A victim to pity, to love, and to cold,
I'll be dead by the time thou hast won me !
Oh ! think for a moment-whoever thou art,
On the woes that beset me together,—
Oh! think of the state of the weather.
How keenly around me the night breezes blow,
How sweetly thy parting note lingers,
A share of its warmth to--my fingers 1
But though she who would watch while the
THE CHILDE'S DESTINY.
“ And none did love him-not his lemans dear."
No mistress of the hidden skill,
No wizard gaunt and grim,
To read the stars for him ;
Of vine-encircled France
Her philosophic glance:
“I sign thee with a sign;
No woman's heart be thine !
“And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek
Is colourless and cold ;
What only eyes have told ;
Hath blushed with passion's kiss,
llath caught its fire from bliss;
Yet while the rivers seek the sea,
And while the young stars shine,
No woman's heart be thine !
By Beauty's numbing spell,
Which Beauty loves so well ;
And swear by earth and sky;
What we must still deny:
By other threads than mine!
The heart may not be thine !
“ Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be
That ever Beauty wore;
And compliments from more;
What only is not love,-
Rain on us from above:
Or name thee in the shrine,
Her heart may not be thine !
“Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun ;
The battle shall be won: