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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,
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess :
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes

down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the

breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope

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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,

Still for ever, fare the well : Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again :

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe :

Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound ?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ;

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away:

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

Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “Father !'

Though his care she must forego ?

When her little hands sholl press thee,

When her lip to thine is press’d,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had bless'd !

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,

All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken ;

Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by. thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done-all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well ! thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seard in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

March 17, 1816.

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.

Though the day of my destiny's over,

And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults .which so many could find ; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted

It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,

The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine ;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiverd,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

To pain-it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me :

They may crush, but they shall not contemn; They may torture, but shall not subdue me;

'Tis of thee that I think—not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake ; Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,

Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with one ; If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : And if dearly that error hath cost me,

And more than I once could foresce, I have found that, whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perishid,

Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd

Deserved to be dearest of all :
In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

July 24, 1816.

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.

My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine ;
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine :
Go where I will, to me thou art the same-
A loved regret which I would not resign.

There yet are two things in my destiny, -
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

The first were nothing—had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness ;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;

Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks

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