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Her lips with music eloquent
As her own grand upright piano; No-never yet was Peri lent
To earth like thee, sweet Adriana. I may not--dare not--call to mind
The joys that once my breast elated, Though yet, methinks, the morning wind
Sweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted : And then I pause, and turn aside
From pleasure's throng of pangless-hearted, To weep! No. Sentiment and pride
Are by each other always thwarted ! I press my hand upon my brow,
To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it, Recall my boyhood's faltered vow,
And marvel-if she still believes it.
But she is woman and her heart,
Like her tiara's brightest jewel, Cold-hard-till kindled by some art,
Then quenchless burns-itself its fuelSo poets say. Well, let it pass,
And those who list may yield it credit ; But as for constancy, alas!
I've never known-I've only read it.
Love ! 'tis a roving fire, at most
The cuerpo santa of life's ocean;
Who trust, 'tis said, rue their devotion,
I have my doubts, and it-believers, Though one is faithless—where's the need
Of shunning all-as gay deceivers ?
I said I loved. I did. But ours
Was felt, not growled hyæna fashion ! We wandered not at midnight hours,
Some dignity restrained the passion ! We loved—I never stooped to woo ;
We met-I always doffed my beaver ; She smiled a careless “How d'ye do
Good morning, sir,”—I rose to leave her She loved—she never told me so;
I never asked—I could not doubt it ; For there were signs on cheek and brow;
And asking! Love is known without it! 'Twas understood-we were content,
And rode, and sang, and waltzed together! Alone, without embarrassment
We talked of something—not the weather !
Time rolled along—the parting hour
With arrowy speed brought its distresses, A kiss—a miniature-a flower
A ringlet from those raven tresses ; And the tears that would unbidden start,
(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,) In the far chambers of my heart,
I swore her image should be cherished.
I've looked on peril—it has glared
In fashionable forms upon me,
And doctors three attending on me!
At pang by shot or steel imparted; I'd not recall that hour of pain
For years of bliss-it passed-we parted.
We parted—though her tear-gemmed cheeks,
Her heaving breast had thus unmanned meShe quite forgot me in three weeks! .
And other beauties soon trepanned me. We met-and did not find it hard
Joy's overwhelming tide to smotherThere was a “Mrs." on her card,
And I-was married to another.
And doffed his mourning weed !
And saddle fast a steed;
And wear a feather fine,
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
Adele is beauteous yet ;
May bow before the jet ;
So welcome shower or shine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine ! * First published in Knight's Quarterly Magazine.
Proud Elgitha ! a health to thee,
A health in brimming gold ! And store of lovers after me,
As honest, and less cold : My hand is on my bugle horn,
My boat is on the brine;
Sing merrily, sing merrily !
CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS.
Once on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers, I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers : Happy-he knew not whence or how,
And smiling,—who could choose but love him? For not more glad than Childhood's brow
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.
Old Time, in most appalling wrath,
That valley's green repose invaded; The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded. But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.
With curling lip and glancing eye
Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute;
Had such a holy spell within it,
Spread forth again his baffled pinion, And hid his envy and despair,
Self-tortured, in his own dominion.
Then stepped a gloomy phantom up,
Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup
Full to the brim of bitter water ;
And when the beldame muttered—“Sorrow," He said—“Don't interrupt my game;
I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow."
The Muse of Pindus thither came,
And wooed him with the softest numbers That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; Though sweet the music of the lay,
To°Childhood it was all a riddle, And, “Oh,” he cried, “ do send away
That noisy woman with the fiddle !"
Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball,
And taught him, with most sage endeavour, Why bubbles rise and acorns fall,
And why no toy may last for ever. She talked of all the wondrous laws
Which Nature's open book discloses, And Childhood, ere she made a pause,
Was fast asleep among the roses.