FRAGMENT XIV.
TO MRS. BROWNE,
OF MOUNT PROSPECT, NEAR DUBLIN.
“La Sagesse est bonne! quelquefois mais toujours de la Sagesse!!!”
Marmontel.
I
I love the warmth! the genial warmth,
That from thine heart's core seems to flow;
That lights thine eye's benignant glance,
And lends thy smile its brightest glow.
II
I love the warmth, the tender warmth,
That animates thy artless air,
That still extends thy cordial hand,
And bids each word a welcome wear.
III
For I (too oft) am doom'd to meet
The eye whose glance my ardour chills,
Where still I seek that eye of soul
Whose glance o'er every fine nerve thrills.
IV
And still, alas! I'm doom'd to touch
Some hand more cold than wintry dew,
Where still I seek that hand's fond press
Whose pulse to mine throbs sweetly true.
V
And oh! how oft I'm doom'd to hear
A voice that from the heart new stole,
Where still I languish for those tones
That woo and win the list'ning soul.
VI
And still I'm sadly doom'd to play
The mental gladiator's part,
When, weary of the strife of wits,
I seek an intercourse of heart.
VII
But thou, dear friend! didst sweetly wake
Each nerve where bosom-pleasures slumber'd,
And warm'd to life those latent joys
Which grieving mem'ry ceaseless number'd.
VIII
With thee too happy to be wise,
Yet wiser in my folly's dream
Than, when to trim cold study's lamp,
I quite neglected nature's beam.
IX
With thee! no longer sadly sage,
Or gravely wise, but wisely simple,
The close-knit brow appears the tomb
Of Wisdom, and her throne the dimple.
