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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
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the
breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,
Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been,
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 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,
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,
It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
Because it reminds me of thine ;
As the breasts I believed in with me,
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.
Thus much I at least may recall,
Deserved to be dearest of all :
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
July 24, 1816.
EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.
My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name
There yet are two things in my destiny, -
The first were nothing—had I still the last,
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