Or did it serve, in form of stone or plant, ΤΟ I LOVE thee-none may know how well, Whate'er thou lov'st it is not thine, Should weep, repent, mayhap, despair-love. Then love me not-thou can'st not scorn; But if I live, do new create me. EXPERTUS LOQUITUR. "'TIS SAD EXPERIENCE SPEAKS." THERE never was a blessing, or a curse, Pleased with himself, and pleased with all mankind, Pass some few years-and see where all will end. Sing in his garret of the flowery grove, And pinched with hunger, wail the woes of love- A FAREWELL. NOT ORIGINALLY WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S OWN NAME. SWEET vale, tho' I must leave To charm thy winsome daughters, When I am far I'll think of thee, but not as men, away. Who vex their souls with thinking, With feverish thirst, the reeky fen, Of sluggard memory drinking, Nor shall thy maidens fair and free, With ought of sadness think of me, When I am far away. The fairy lake, tho' still it seems, Is evermore a-flowing, A moment ends the silvery gleams That flash as we are rowing. Yet that smooth lake, as smooth shall flow, And light oars flash, when gay youths' row, When I am far away. So may the tide of virgin life, As smooth, as quick, as clear, If e'er, in momentary strife, It dimple with a tear, As soon regain its sweet repose And rest in peace, because it flows, For ever on its way. HORACE. BOOK I., ODE 38. "Persicos odi, puer, apparatus." NAY, nay, my boy-'tis not for me, With linden twine, Nor seek, where latest lingering blows The solitary rose. Earnest I beg-add not with toilsome pain, Looks seemliest on thy brow; Nor me mis-seems, while, underneath the vine, Close interweaved, I quaff the rosy wine. DEATH. OH! weep not for the happy dead, And strong in love, to him she fled From mother's house, and parent's smiling board. Alas! we cannot choose but weep, For we are sore bereaven; And all of her that we can keep Is but an image on the deep, The deep calm soul, that shews reflected heaven. If angel spirits aught may know Of hearts they left behind, If e'er they cast a look below, The sacrifice of pious woe May yield a tender joy, even to the angel kind. |