126 TREASURES OF THE DEEP. Give back the lost and lovely!-Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long; The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown. -But all is not thy own! THE RETURN FROM INDIA. I CAME; but they had passed away, Where all are strange, and none are kind; That pants, that struggles for repose: O! that my steps had reached the goal Where earthly sighs and sorrows close. Years have passed o'er me, like a dream Some relic of a former age. Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish-a hope-a fear! Yet I had hopes-and they are fled; 'Tis but to bear a weary load, I may not, dare not cast away; To sigh for one small, still abode, Where I may sleep as sweet as they : As they, the loveliest of their race, With none to chide, to hear, to see. On one whom death disdains to free. I leave a world that knows me not, Where fancy's softest dreams are shed. But soon the last dim morn shall rise, The lamp of life burns feebly now,— When stranger hands shall close my eyes, And smooth my cold and dewy brow. Unknown I lived-so let me die; Nor stone, nor monumental cross, Tell where his nameless ashes lie, Who sighed for gold, and found it dross. STANZAS. WE met but in one giddy dance; If I have never touched the string When you were by to hear one.- Yet do not, though the world's cold school Which kinder friends have thought me; But Folly little recks what name Farewell!-Oh, life is dark and light, Whose health makes bright my burgundy, REPROACH ME NOT. OH! gentle shade,-reproach me not, However wild the revelry. For, o'er the silent goblet, thou Art still remembered, and a cloud Comes o'er my heart, and o'er my brow; And I am lone, while all are loud. Reproach me not,-Reproach me not, To think on joys which but have been ; Must haunt my life, and speed my fall! I think on thee,-I think and sigh,— That gives a loveliness to pain; 130 REPROACH ME NOT. But yet, ah! gentle saint, forgive The faults this wretched breast hath known! Had fate allowed thee but to live, Those shadowing faults had ne'er been shown. Thy friends are fading from my sight, Thy picture! It is life, health,-love,- O'er thy still 'semblance, charmed from pain, That I have thought the living light Came beaming from those eyes again! In my dark heart thy image glows, Youth sketched the form, when free from woes, In loneliness 'tis ne'er forgot, My heart beats still the same to thee:- |