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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,
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes
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,
So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
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
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;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
But 'tis done-all words are idle-
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
March 17, 1816.
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.
Though the day of my destiny's over,
The faults which so many could find;
Then when nature around me is smiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,
It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 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,
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one;
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
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
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,—