One shade the more, one ray the less, Or softly lightens o'er her face; And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, A mind at peace with all below, II. OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? FROM PARISINA.' It is the hour when from the boughs Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And on the leaf a browner hue, As twilight melts beneath the moon away. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee, With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay: 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness, Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. Oh could I feel as I have felt,- -or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. March, 1815. FARE THEE WELL. Fare thee well! and if for ever, 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Though the world for this commend thee- Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Still thine own its life retaineth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Wake us from a widow'd bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When her little hands shall press thee, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, Every feeling hath been shaken; But 'tis done all words are idle- Fare thee well! thus disunited, Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, March 17, 1816. |