TIME'S CHANGES. I SAW her once-so freshly fair That, like a blossom just unfolding, She open'd to Life's cloudless air; And Nature joy'd to view its moulding: Should dim such sweet, delicious splendor! For in her mien, and in her face, And in her young step's fairy lightness, Naught could the raptured gazer trace But Beauty's glow, and Pleasure's brightness. I saw her twice-an alter'd charm But still of magic, richest, rarest, Than girlhood's talisman less warm, Upon her breast she held a child, They seem'd to live but in each other :- Her thoughtless, sinless look had banish'd, And from her cheek the roseate glow Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanish'd; Lay something softer, fonder, deeper, I saw her thrice-Fate's dark decree As even my reveries portrayed her; The retrospect was scarcely bitter; For, in their place a calmness dwelt, Serene, subduing, soothing, holy; In feeling which, the bosom felt That every louder mirth is folly A pensiveness, which is not grief, A stillness-as of sunset streaming A fairy glow on flower and leaf, Till earth looks on like a landscape dreaming. A last time—and unmoved she lay, From whence the spark had fled for ever! A happy mother, in the blaze Of ripen'd hope, and sunny beauty— I felt the chill-I turn'd aside Bleak Desolation's cloud came o'er me, And Being seem'd a troubled tide, Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me! GOOD NIGHT. Good night to thee, lady!-though many Where all was seducing and bright; Thy smile was the softest and dearest, Good night to thee, lady!-'tis over- The whisper'd farewell of the lover, The heartless adieu of the throng; The beaux that were dreaming of treasure, 'Tis over-the lights are all dying, The coaches all driving away; And many a fair one is sighing, And many a false one is gay; And Beauty counts over her numbers Of conquests, as homeward she drives— And some are gone home to their slumbers, And some are gone home to their wives. And I, while my cab in the shower Is waiting, the last at the door, Am looking all round for the flower That fell from your wreath on the floor. I'll keep it—if but to remind me, Though withered and faded its hueWherever next season may find me— Of England-of Almack's-and you! There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely There are looks that will part from us only When memory ceases to be; There are hopes which our burden can lighten, There are names that we cherish, though nameless; For aye on the lip they may be; There are hearts that, though fetter'd, are tameless, And some are too grave for a rover, And some for a husband too light. -The ball and my dream are all over— |