Parliamentary Letters, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

As pebbles on the beach appear,
Beneath the waters, bright and clear;
But taken thence and dried, they lose
Their polish'd and transparent hues
So human joys in youth receive
Those charms which youth alone can give;
But when that ardent time is o'er,
Their brightest tints are seen no more.

As summer clouds, that lightly pass
In shadows o'er the sunny grass,
And quickly vanish, having made
Nought but a momentary shade;

So human woes, when hearts are gay,
Glide imperceptibly away;
And having done their worst, we find
They scarcely leave a trace behind.

TO A Friend WHO SAID “When you are gone you will forget me.”

Let not suspicions so unkind
Make parting with you more severe:
For I shall ever bear in mind
Those friends who made me happy here.

And if you feel that you must be,
Though absent, mindful of my name;
In justice to yourself and me,
Believe that I shall feel the same.

You say in every form you see
A record of our joys you'll find;
But distant scenes will bring to me
No trace of her I leave behind.

Yet oh! in every changing scene
I'll think—(for I must think about you)—
How bless'd with you it might have been,
But how unbless'd it is without you.

Lines WRITTEN AT GRETNA GREEN.

Here Cupid is free, and there is not a fetter
To check his wild fancies, or rob him of bliss:
This spot is his own; and there is not a better,
For giving love's warm inspiration, than this:
And Nancy—if e'er you had treated me coldly
(And Venus forbid I should say that you do),
Even then from this place I'd petition you boldly,
With some little prospect of winning you too.

Here lovers unlicensed may soon be united;
For all those formalities, dull and severe,
Which England expects, are deliciously slighted,
And hearts have despotic authority here:

And Nancy—whilst viewing love's favourite scene,
Where true hearts are coupled, and led to his throne;
I vow—(just by way of amusement I mean)—
I cannot help coupling yours and my own.

Adieu, happy green, though your gambols are pleasant,
Though loved by the spirited, youthful, and free;
As I have no pretty companion at present,
Your privilege only can tantalize me;
And Nancy—perhaps I shall never partake
Of a fugitive frolic; but oh! if I do,
Believe me, my dear, it will be for the sake
Of a little associate very like you.

Lines WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF LLANGOLLEN, IN WALES.

Sweet vale of Llangollen, I bid you adieu,
One moment I pause ere my course I pursue;
I fondly look back on the scenes I have pass'd,
And sigh when I think that this look is the last:
Farewell to the glens where the willow trees grow,
And shadow the waters that murmur below;
Farewell to the rills I at intervals see
'Midst the copsewood that fringes the banks of the Dee.

The river winds on with a surface so clear,
That through it the pebbles distinctly appear,
Except o'er the rock where the waterfall gushes,
And hurries in foam to its bed of green rushes;

Oh! this is the valley where lovers should rove,—
So lovely!—'twas form'd for the accents of love;
In a spot so delighful as this, not a word
But such as love dictates should ever be heard.

Sweet vale of Llangollen! though years pass away
Ere I look on the scenes that have charm'd me today;
Though the visions I cherish perhaps may be vain,
And I never may walk in thy valley again:
Wherever I rove—when the soft summer breeze
Shall fan me in groves less romantic than these;
I'll think of Llangollen, and wish I could see
The shadowy path on the banks of the Dee.

RETROSPECTION.

When I look back upon the past,
As o'er a troubled sea;
I mourn when I reflect how fast
The hand of Time has overcast
Days once endear'd to me.

Our early joys we dimly trace,
When sorrows intervene;
Now care our former thoughts displace,
And many a friendly form and face
Are indistinctly seen.

Yet though the gloomy lapse of years
Youth's fickle ties may part;
Love—an unchanging brightness wears,
And e'en in sorrow it appears
To sooth the wounded heart.

Though pain'd, and slighted, and oppress'd,
It still retains its truth;
In age—outliving all the rest,
This passion clings around the breast,
Reminding us of youth.

[We parted,—yet I never heard]

We parted,—yet I never heard
Her lips repeat a last adieu;
We parted,—yet no soothing word
Assured me she would still be true:
And when I left my Anna's side,
I only felt that gentle sorrow
Which lovers feel, who but divide
To meet again in joy to-morrow.

Oh! who that from a friend must sever
For long—long years,—perhaps for ever,
Would wish to fly without possessing
A parting look, a parting blessing?

Though in that moment are combined
All that can agonize the mind;
Though lips cannot express their woe,
Though tears may then refuse to flow;

Though anguish, not to be exprest,
Nearly o'erwhelms the throbbing breast;
Yet when the trying hour is o'er,
And friendly forms are seen no more;
When one fond look in vain is sought,
There's consolation in the thought
That the last word, the parting sigh,
Recorded their fidelity.

How precious to my heart had been
The memory of such a scene;
The silent pressure of the hand,
Which friends so well can understand;

The fond, intelligible touch,
Which to a lover says so much;
The words, the looks,—which, though they fill
Our eyes with tears,—are comforts still.

LOVE.

How rare is love! not that light flame,
Weak and unworthy of the name,
By which gay youths so often swear
To her who happens to be nearest;
Adoring ev'ry form that's fair;
The newest always thought the dearest.

But oh! how rare the love which wears
A form unchanged through many years;
Which fades not when the youthful day
That gave it birth has pass'd away;
Which e'en in age may still possess
The fond esteem, the tenderness,
The uncontaminated truth,
It first profess'd in early youth:

Which will not blush, or shrink from hearing
Those vows, so fond, and so endearing,
Those tender things it used to say
In courtship's oft delusive day.

Such love, alas! is seldom seen;
So many causes intervene
To dazzle passion's wand'ring eye,
And lead it to inconstancy:
So many doubts,—howe'er unjust,
So many trifles cause distrust;
Trifles at first, but magnified
Till the frail mask is thrown aside.

In some afflictions, length of years,
Or change of scene, may dry our tears;
Most have some ray of hope, which still
Alleviates the present ill:—

But slighted love's a secret wound,
For which no earthly cure is found;
And how much more acute, to know
A hand beloved has aim'd the blow.

The mournful youth, whose tears are shed
O'er one he loved—now cold and dead;
This consolation yet has known,—
Living, her love was all his own.
But one who many years has moved
Near her his heart sincerely loved;
Whose presence in his eyes has been
The brightness of the brightest scene;
Whose words—whose very thoughts, when known,
Seem'd interwoven with his own;
When he is roused from dreams so sweet,
And feels her kindness all deceit;

When this is learnt,—and learnt too late,
It leaves the bosom desolate.
She still may play a fickle part,
A part which he can never learn;
In vain he strives to teach his heart
To think of her with unconcern:
To others he can ne'er transfer
The love so lately taught by her.
But when more lasting feelings blend,
And promise love a better end;
When hearts by folly are not led,
And roses o'er the path are spread,
Which may be found, when youth is gone,
A couch for age to rest upon;
Then let not wordly thoughts destroy
The prospect of such perfect joy;
Or friends, with cruel kindness sever
Those—love ordain'd to join for ever,

Oh! love is born in youthful days,
When pleasure sheds her purest rays;
And love endures to latest years,
To sooth our woes,—to dry our tears:
It cannot lengthen early bliss,
Or cause time's fleet career to stop;
But offers age much more than this,
Its social joy,—its firmest prop.
It cannot join the ties that sever,
Or make gay moments last for ever;
But, if love's real sparks remain,
Moments as gay may come again:
It cannot freshen autumn leaves,
Or breath new life on vigour flown:
And ah! why should it?—when it gives
To age a sunshine of its own.

TO A Lady WITH A LOCK OF HAIR.

Could locks of hair the thoughts unfold
Of those upon whose heads they curl'd,
You'd have a chance of being told
The sweetest sayings in the world.

Then would this little lock reveal
Each secret sigh, each fond regret;
All I have felt, and all I feel
For one I never can forget.

If it said true, 'twould say thou art
My daily care, my nightly dream,
The cherish'd idol of my heart,
My constant thought, my constant theme.

But ah! it owns no magic spell
To be the record of my woes;
And I will guard my griefs too well,
To let them injure your repose.

And wherefore should I wish you here,—
The hope is vain, it cannot be;
For other scenes to you are dear,
And other friends have banish'd me.

Perhaps their words more warmth impart,
A nobler form perhaps they own;
But none can bear a warmer heart,
Or love you more than I have done.

Their eyes more lustre may possess,
Their lips more skill'd in flattery's lore;
Yet though perhaps I please you less,
I feel they cannot love you more.

The trees their pendant blossoms bear,
The bowers their former shade renew;
But not again to deck your hair,
But not again to shelter you.

The lawns as soft a verdure boast,
The same enjoyments still remain;
'Tis I am changed, 'tis I have lost
The joys, the hopes that warm'd me then.

Yet still at eve I wander there,
Our former walks I still may see;
The walks remain—but where, oh! where
Is she who made them dear to me?

Because my tears have pass'd away,
The world may think I love you less;
But features would be seldom gay,
Did all disclose their wretchedness.

'Tis true they never see me weep;
They little think the pangs I feel;
But no affliction is so deep
As that we labour to conceal.

I care not what befals me now.—
Can ought on earth deserve my care?—
I know these things are past; but how
Can I forget that “such things were?”

TO ELLEN.

Ellen! there was a time when I could tune
My harp to mirthful measures, and repeat
My songs of love with confidence, for soon
Your lip in singing them could make them sweet:
The voice of others might my accents greet
With praise, or with contempt; I gladly flew
From their reproach, a recompence to meet
In Ellen's smiles of kindness;—for I drew
The subject of my song, and its reward, from you.

But now my harp is tuned to notes of woe,
In losing you it lost its lively tone;
And those who now the voice of praise bestow,
Can never praise or look—as you have done:
Their words may be the same, but there are none

Who breathe them with an accent half so dear;
They may look kindly too;—but you alone
Can glance forth kindest looks that banish fear,
From lovely laughing eyes that could not be severe.

In fancy's vision I behold thee now,
In form and feature beautiful and bright;
With locks of darkest brown upon thy brow,
And eyes that beam with most expressive light:
Thy charms shall be remember'd when the sight
Has ceased to trace them; as the blaze of day
Lives unforgotten in the gloom of night:
The hope that sweetens love hath pass'd away,
But hopeless it exists, and never can decay.

How dull and cheerless is the garden walk!
How uninviting is the ball-room's blaze!
The gay lyburnum withers on its stalk,
The monthly rosebud unobserved decays,

For Ellen cannot wear them:—still I gaze
Upon the spot that you inhabited;
And trace the happiness of former days:
Sad is the memory of pleasures fled,
Like thinking of those friends who loved us, and are dead.

LOVE AND SCIENCE.

Once, when Rosa was cruel, I cried, in a pet,
My passion I'll conquer, her charms I'll forget,
The bloom of her features shall lure me in vain,
I'll change my sad fetters for freedom again;
Through the mazes of science henceforward I'll rove,
And with books, pens, and ink, bid defiance to love.

After giving the damsel a hasty adieu,
To astronomy first I with eagerness flew;
And with look most profound I examined the skies;—
But the stars made me think of my Rosa's bright eyes;
And the hue of the heavens, the beams of the sun
Recall'd,—what I hoped they would teach me to shun.

To geography quickly I turn'd to explore
On a map's painted surface the sea and the shore;
But my eye glanced them over, and rested alone
Upon one spot of earth, and alas! 'twas that one
Of which I had firmly resolved to beware;
For Rosa, and all her attractions, were there.

Next in painting and music I hoped to insure
For my love and my sorrows a permanent cure;
But, in spite of all caution, my pencil would steal
A sly little outline of Rosa's profile;
And I always observed that my flute and my voice
Were only in tune to the songs of her choice.

I then turn'd to botany, studying hard
To bury each trace of my former regard;
But my thoughts were abstracted, nor heeded the bloom
Of the tulip or rose, or the lily's perfume;

For memory still to my mind would present
A check which afforded a lovelier tint.

To poetry next I devoted my time,
And pour'd forth my sighs and afflictions in rhyme;
And I found with delight that I loved to revile
Each action of Rosa, and laugh at her smile;
But, alas! it this sorrowful truth did impart,
She was most in my thoughts, perhaps most in my heart.

“Ah! me,” I exclaimed, “all my efforts are vain,
“Dear Rosa, receive your poor truant again;
“Without you the moments are tedious to him,
“His instrument useless, his telescope dim;
“And science herself can no longer engage,
“Unless you are near him to point out the page.”

YES, MY LOVE, YES.

When I see the kind looks you bestow on another,
And think of the time when those looks were my own;
How can I the pangs of anxiety smother,
Or cease to remember the joys that are flown?
You love me no longer—severely I feel it,
Yet would not for worlds you should share my distress;
If my sorrow afflicts you, with care I'll conceal it,
I still wish you happy—oh! yes, my love, yes.

Your affections could ne'er be so fickle and veering
As to treat him with scorn you so lately approved;

Ah! when you first charm'd me with looks so endearing,
You meant to be constant, and thought that you loved:
Then may you be blest—for I never can blame you,
Though torn with an anguish I cannot express;
'Mid the friends of my bosom, believe me I'll name you
The first and the dearest,—oh! yes, my love, yes.

I still will remember, though fated to lose you,
Those dreams that deluded my fancy so long;
When a story or song from these lips could amuse you,
And you were the theme of both story and song:
But my lips have forgotten their amorous measure,
My harp is tuned only to sorrow's excess;

Your name is still dear, and I breathe it with pleasure,
Yet sigh as I breathe it—oh! yes, my love, yes.

TO A Lady WHO DECLARED THE AUTHOR WAS IN LOVE, SAYING, “I read it in your eyes.”

Say not you read it in my eyes,
For eyes, alas! are sad deceivers;
And they may well their system prize
Who boast the name of unbelievers.

In eyes, and their mute eloquence,
I once reposed my whole reliance;
And studied hard to gain from thence
The fundamental rules of science.

I once perused those splendid books,
And gazed on animated pages;

Reading much more in Ellen's looks
Than e'er was taught by ancient sages.

What charms did wisdom then present,
To make me long for its possession;
I found each glance an argument,
And every smile a proof impression.

I never thought that too much time
To such a subject could be given;
Each little sentence was sublime,
And every chapter spoke of heaven.

I read with rapture, and supposed
My constant diligence was prudent;
But now those looks to me are closed,
And charm some more deserving student.

With literary zeal I seek
A second or a third edition;
But every other must be weak,
Placed with the first in competition.

Then, lady, never hope to find
A tale of truth in tender glances;
In these, believe me, are combined
The wildest fictions and romances.

Yet still the charming science prize,
Nor heed the warnings of dejection;
And may you read in smiling eyes,
Assurance of the heart's affection!

TO ROSA.

Fair Rosa! when on me you smiled,
And caught me in the artful trap,
All thought me then most blest, and styled
Your love—a feather in my cap.

And now that all those smiles so bright
Have fled before woe's stormy weather,
Alas! I find my friends were right,
Your love, indeed, was but a feather.

TO LAURA.

Dear Laura! when you were a flirting young miss,
And I was your dutiful swain,
Your smiles could exalt to the summit of bliss,
Your frowns could o'erwhelm me with pain:

You were dear to me then, love, but now you're my wife,
It is strange the fond tie should be nearer;
Yet when I am paying your debts, on my life
You seem to get dearer and dearer.

TO A TELL-TALE.

When I told you my secrets, you know 'twas your boast
They would all be “between you and me and the post;”
But since I can trust to your faith, and my own,
How is it, good sir, that my secrets are known?
“Between you and me and the post” it must be,
And I have my suspicions of one of the three;
The post spread the rumour, and such its extent,
I believe 'twas the two-penny post that you meant.

CONDOLENCE.

A fine farmer's daughter (who thought that all labor
Wast vastly degrading, and base)
Was courted and won by a volatile neighbour,
Who left her to grief and disgrace.

The farmer convey'd her with rage to her lover:
—The father he vowed should atone;
Who said (when the heart-rending story was over),
“My woes are as great as your own.”

“I pity her vastly, yet now you have brought her,
“Good neighbour,—there's nought to be done;
“I only can say you've a very bad daughter,
“And I have a very bad son.”

A TRIP TO PORTSMOUTH.

(A FACT.)

A country farmer who, by constant care,
Had realised some hundred pounds a-year;
Thought that as Jonathan, his only son,
Had just attain'd the age of twenty-one;
'Twas surely time the hopeful youth should see
Something of fashion and gentility:
He therefore purchased him a Sunday coat,
Furnish'd his pockets with a ten-pound note,
And sent him forth, to rove a month or two,
And visit Portsmouth and the grand review.

The youth, who innocently thought, 'till then,
That all mankind were Zomerzetshire men,

Nor dreamt the world could possibly contain
One foot of ground beyond his native plain;
Now look'd around,—and view'd, with vast delight,
The varied scenes that met his aching sight;
Whilst every joy the former far surpass'd,
And each new wonderment excell'd the last.

At length the period of return is come,
And Jonathan prepares to journey home;
Resolving in his way to pass an hour
Near Winton's vale, and famed St. Cross's tower.

Onward he rides, with slow and pensive pace,
Noting the rural beauties of the place:
When lo! as near St. Catherine's hill he's straying,
The College boys, as usual, there were playing;
And in their sable gowns, with smiling faces,
Upon the grassy steep were running races;

Awhile he paused,—astonish'd at the fun:
Thought 'twas exceeding odd, and then rode on.

On his return, with sage and knowing mien,
He thus relates the wonders he has seen;
“Father, I've witness'd mighty men, 'tis true,
“I've seen the kings, the ships, and the review:
“At sturdy Blucher too I've had a peep,
“And in a boat have sail'd upon the deep:
“But oh! dear father, what amazed me most,
“Was—as one morn through Winton's vale I cross'd,
“I saw—(a sight I ne'er did see before)—
“Matter of fifty parsons, aye, and more;
“Black gowns and all! (methinks I see them still)
“Full fifty parsons running down a hill!!!”

Epistle FROM A LADY AT CHELTENHAM, TO HER SISTER IN THE COUNTRY.

Dear Bess, when I left you, I promised to write
An account of our doings each Saturday night;
And beginning with Monday, by sketches diurnal,
To give my epistles the form of a journal;
But spare me, dear sister, for here 'tis my fate
To be walking so early, and dancing so late;
Here's so much to be done, and so much to be said,
So much work for the heels (not to mention the head),
You must only expect an occasional scrawl,
And think you're well off to be noticed at all.

Oh! Betsey, I wish that my ink and my pen
Were fit to describe all the balls and the men:
The balls are exceedingly gay; but the fact is,
I know them as yet more by precept than practice;
For waltzing's the fashion, and that I confess
Is an art which at present I do not possess;
But a Dandy has offer'd to show me the way,
And appointed to give me a lesson to-day,
So you see I improve, for I'm learning already
To do giddy actions without being giddy.
What damsel would lavish her breath or her skill
On a dull country dance, or insipid quadrille;
I'm weary of both, and with languor I view
The formal precision of “En avant deux;”
Where they study their lessons with serious looks,
And often peep into their sly little books

Thus searching a volume when rather perplext,
To find illustrations of what should come next,
As if “chassez croisez” no man could succeed in
Without meditation, and very hard reading.
Whilst these duodecimo books I detest,
Country dances I think even worse than the rest;
Where unsociable space loving partners divides,
Who smile at each other from opposite sides;
And, instead of soft pressures and whispers seraphic
Their little endearments are all telegraphic:—
There you stand in a set of two dozen, and stop
Till some get to the bottom, and you to the top;
And when you are there the reward you obtain
Is to run down the middle, and run up again;
And then the vile ill-looking creatures, who stand
All eager in turn to take hold of your hand;

As you follow the leader through twenty or thirty;
With hands very warm, and with gloves very dirty.
But in waltzing you're join'd (as in marriage) to one
Who claims (or should claim) your attention alone;
Unless on the circle of gazers you glance,
Assured they are thinking how well you both dance.
In patent Kaleidoscopes all may discern
A novel attraction at every turn;
And every movement presents to the sight
A figure more perfect, a colour more bright;
But waltzing, though charming to those who can do it.
Is rather fatiguing to people who view it;
For though turns are incessant, no changes you meet.
But giddiness, bustle, embracing, and heat.
At first they move slowly, with caution and grace,
Like horses when just setting out on a race;

For dancers at balls, just like horses at races,
Must amble a little to show off their paces.
The music plays faster, their raptures begin,
Like lambkins they skip, like tetotums they spin:
Now draperies whirl, and now petticoats fly,
And ancles at least are exposed to the eye.
O'er the chalk-cover'd ball-room in circles they swim;
He smiles upon her, and she smiles upon him;
Her arm on his shoulder is tenderly placed,
His hand quite as tenderly circles her waist;
They still bear in mind, as they're turning each other,
The proverb “one good turn's deserving another;”
And these bodily turns often end, it is said,
In turning the lady's or gentleman's head.

POSTSCRIPT.

When you talk of this dance, I request it may be,
Not waltzing, but valtzing, pronounced with a v.

I suppose in the village you've nothing to do
But to drink your bohea, and play cribbage and loo.
By the bye—now I'm talking of tea, it is serious
To hear that this article's so deleterious;
You'll drink it with terror, I'm sure, when you know
That they make it with verdigris, copper, and sloe;
Slow poison our beverage surely must be,
With sloe juice in our wine, and sloe leaves in our tea.

100

An Epistle FROM AN APOTHECARY IN BATH, TO A SURGEON IN LONDON.

[_]

This Epistle was occasioned by a regulation which was supposed to exclude all “Venders of Medicines” from the Kingston Rooms in Bath.

My dear Mister Lancet, I take up my pen
To tell you the wrongs of us medical men,
To speak of oppressions we all have endured,
And utter complaints which can never be cured;
And oh! I shall tell you of usage so vile,
That 'twill fever your blood, and unsettle your bile.

After feeling the pulse of the old and the young,
And making remarks on a dowager's tongue;

101

After striving to remedy mortal disasters,
With poultices, blisters, emetics, and plasters:
You know, my dear friend, with what joy and delight
I used to attend the assemblies at night;
And, weary of making up potions and pills,
I gazed at fair faces, and join'd in quadrilles:
Oh! this was delightful; there weekly I met
A dozen fair patients, arranged in the set;
And as we cross'd hands, I approach'd them so close
As to see the effect of my yesterday's dose.
Thus whilst to mamma I prescribe the Bath waters,
A dance with myself I prescribed for the daughters;
I often applied to my partner by chance
An enlivening look as we went down the dance;
And thought it my duty sometimes to impart
Aperient physic to open her heart.

But would you believe it? I now am disgraced!
From the book of subscriptions my name is erased!

102

They've sent back my money, and wickedly swear
No “vender of medicines” shall ever go there!
It seems 'tis their firm resolution to stop
All medical people who smell of the shop:
No pounder or mixer of physic may see
Their new operations:—whereas an M. D.
Because he's diploma'd, and licensed to kill,
May boldly prescribe, and subscribe if he will;
A doctor may still be a dancer, and thus
Rooms are open to them, but are costive to us.
To be sent in disgrace from the gay and the young
Is surely sufficient to blister my tongue;
'Tis enough to suspend animation, and place
My professional drugs in the hues of my face.
But list! and beware, oh! ye Kingston Committee!
How ye injure the physical strength of the city:
For if you persist in your new regulation,
You'll keep out the Mayor and the whole Corporation!

103

Awhile ye may triumph, and laugh at our woe—
But when ye are sick, and your spirits are low,
When those you turn'd out shall at length be call'd in,
Oh! tremble, for then shall our vengeance begin:
Whole legions of gallipots soon shall arise,
And surgical terrors shall dazzle your eyes;
Your bowels shall suffer,—we'll punish you thus,
Remembering that you had no bowels for us;
Pillulas and powders shall fall to your lot,
Till we find you no longer worth powder and shot;
We'll drench you with drugs, and new plans we'll pursue,
And try all experiments first upon you;
Your blood shall be spilt, and your tears shall be shed,
And our phials of wrath shall be pour'd on your head.

104

You see, my dear Lancet, I'm quite in a passion
At being expell'd from the regions of fashion;
I will not submit to so grievous a fall,
For I never can stomach the measure at all;
You surely must own this medicinal question
Will prove to our tribe rather hard of digestion:
When I feel I'm consider'd a vulgar excrescence
(My blood's in a state of complete effervescence)
I'll poison our foes,—nay, their end shall be shorter,
I'll pound them to death with my pestle and mortar;
No ball-room committee shall ever controul us,
Is the firm resolution of

Anthony Bolus.

105

Lines SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A LADY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY DAUGHTER.

Oh! tell me not to smile again,
Since dear Maria's smiles are o'er;
Oh! tell me not my tears are vain,
For that must make me weep the more.

You say that Folly ever rules
In tears and unavailing sighs;—
—If feeling be the badge of fools,
I've no ambition to be wise.

Go bid the stormy billows cease,
Go chide the whirlwinds of the air;

106

But never whisper words of peace,
To soothe the sorrows of despair.

Oh! they are rooted in my heart,
No balm can ever banish them;
The rose once cropt,—no magic art
Can e'er replace it on the stem.

No spell permits us to retread
The paths where youth and pleasure smiled;
No form of words can raise the dead,
Or give me back my only child.

Then say no more that tears are vain
To one so desolate and sad;
I ne'er can view her form again,
She died—and yet I am not mad!

107

I am not mad—I yet survive
Through life's drear path to wander on;
But who, alas! would wish to live,
When all we loved on earth are gone?

108

TO ------.

Farewell.—Now our friendship is over,—
Henceforth let all intercourse end;
For he who is false as a lover
Can never be true as a friend:
Away! when in boyhood I sought thee,
Sincerity beam'd on thy brow;—
And then—oh! I could not have thought thee
The wretch thou hast proved thyself now.

Had the hand of adversity taken
Each flowret that bloom'd in your view,
Or had you by her been forsaken
Who now is deserted by you;
Had the storms of misfortune assail'd thee,
Yet left thee in virtue the same;

109

Oh! then I would proudly have hail'd thee,
Nor blush'd to acknowledge thy claim.

It surely was cruel so early
To darken her opening years,
And leave one who loved you sincerely
A prey to repentance and tears:
The world, with its frowns and its terrors,
May punish her fault if it will:—
But you were the cause of her errors,
You should have protected her still.

THE END.