FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never! Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride; They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour, Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care But thou wert not fated affection to share For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot, Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: no more. And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 1807. LINES. ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.* Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet-AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee; TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 1807. YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. • See Fragment, page 560. And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus ?-is it as I foretold, And shall be more so; for the mind recoils We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more, ⚫ See Fragment, page 571. 1 am too well avenged!-but 'twas my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Mercy is for the merciful!-If thou Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!- I have had many foes, but none like thee; For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, And be avenged, or turn them into friend; But thou in safe implacability Hadst nought to dread-in thine own weakness shielded, And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, On things that were not, and on things that are- Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell All found a place in thy philosophy, The means were worthy, and the end is won- September, 1816. STANZAS. "COULD LOVE FOR EVER." COULD Love for ever Run like a river, And Time's endeavor Be tried in vain No other pleasure With this could measure; And like a treasure We'd hug the chain. But since our sighing Ends not in dying, And, form'd for flying, Love plumes his wing; Let's love a season, But let that season be only Spring. When lovers parted A few years older, They pluck Love's feather But sadly shiver Without his plumage, when past the Spring Like Chiefs of Faction A formal paction That curbs his reign, Quits with disdain. He must move on- Love brooks not a degraded throne Wait not, fond lover: As from a dream. If once diminish'd Love's reign is finish'd Then part in friendship,-and bid good-night So shall Affection, To recollection The dear connection Bring back with joy; As through the past: Reflect but rapture-not least though last. |