And think'st thou, dear object-for still
To my bosom thou only art life,
And spite of my pride and my will,

I bless thee, I woo thee, my wife!

Oh! think'st thou that absence shall bring
The balm which will give thee relief:
Or time, on its life-wasting wing,
An antidote yield for thy grief?

Thy hopes will be frail as the dream
Which cheats the long moments of night,
But melts in the glare of the beam
Which breaks from the portal of light.

For when on thy babe's smiling face
Thy features and mine intertwined,
The finger of Fancy shall trace,
The spell shall resistlessly bind,

The dimple that dwells on her cheek,
The glances that beam from her eye,
The lisp as she struggles to speak,
Skall dash every smile with a sigh.

Then I, though whole oceans between
Their billowy barriers may rear,
Shall triumph, though far and unseen,
Unconscious, uncall'd, shall be there.

The cruelty sprang not from thee,
'Twas foreign and foul to thy heart,
That levell'd its arrow at me,

And fix'd the incurable smart.

Ah, no! 'twas another than thine,

The hand which assail'd my repose,

It struck-and too fatally mine

The wound, and its offspring of woes.

They hated us both, who destroy'd
The buds and the promise of Spring,

For who, to replenish the void,
New ties, new affections, can bring?

Alas! to the Leart that is rent,

What nostrums can soundness restore? Or what, to the bow over-bent,

The spring which it carried before?

The rent heart will fester and bleed,
And fade like the leaf in the blast;
The crack'd yew no more will recede,
Though vigorous and tough to the last.

I wander-it matters not where:

No clime can restore me my peace, Or snatch from the frown of despair, A cheering-a fleeting release !

How slowly the moments will move!
How tedious the footsteps of years!
When valley and mountain and grove
Shall change but the scene of my tears.

The classic memorials which nod,
The spot dear to science and lore,
Sarcophagus, temple, and sod,
Excite me and ravish no more.

The stork on the perishing wall
Is better and happier than I,
Content in his ivy-built hall,

He hangs out his home in the sky.

But houseless and heartless I rove
My bosom all bared to the wind,
The victim of pride, and of love,
I seek-but, ah! where can I find?

I seek what no tribes can bestow;
I ask what no clime can impart ;
A charm which can neutralize woe,
And dry up the tears of the heart.

I ask it-I seek it-in vain

From Ind to the northernmost pole,
Unlieeded-unpitied-complain,
And pour out the grief of my soul.

What bosom shall heave when I sigh?
What tears shall respond when I weep?
To my wailings what wail shall reply?
What eye mark the vigils I keep?

Even thou, as thou learnest to prate,
Dear babe-while remotely Irove-
Shall count it a duty to hate

Where nature commands thee to love.

The foul tongue of malice shall peal
My vices, my faults, in thine ear,
And teach thee, with demon-like zeal,
A father's affection to fear.

And oh! if in some distant day,

Thine ear may be struck with my lyre, And nature's true index may say, "It may be-it must be my sire!"

Perchance to thy prejudiced eye
Obnoxious my form may appear,
Even nature be deaf to my sigh,
And duty refuse me a tear.

Yet sure in this isle, where my songs
Have echo'd from mountain and dell,
Some tongue the sad tale of my wrongs
With grateful emotion may tell.

Some youth, who had valued my lay,
And warm'd o'er the tale as it ran,

To thee even may venture to say,

His frailties were those of a man.'

They were; they were human, but swell'd By envy and malice and scorn,

Each feeling of nature rebell'd,
And hated the mask it had worn.

Though human the fault-how severe,
How harsh the stern sentence pronouncea;
Even pride dropp'd a niggardly tear
My love as it grimly denounced.

'Tis past the great struggle is o'er;
The war of my bosom subsides;
And passion's strong current no more
Impels its impetuous tides.

'Tis past my affections give way,
The ties of my nature are broke,
The summons of pride I obey,
And break love's degenerate yoke.

I fly, like a bird of the air,

In search of a home and a rest; A balm for the sickness of care, A bliss for a bosom unbless'd.

And swift as the swallow that floats,
And bold as the eagle that soars,
Yet dull as the owlet, whose notes
The dark fiend of midnight deplores !

Where gleam the gay splendours of East
The dance and the bountiful board;
I'll bear me to Luxury's feast,
To exile the form I adored.

In full brimming goblets I'll quaff
The sweets of the Lethean spring,
And join in the Bacchanal's laugh,
And trip in the fairy-form'd ring.

Where pleasure invites will I roam,
To drown the dull memory of care,
An exile from hope and from home,
A fugitive chased by despair.

Farewell to thee, land of the brave!
Farewell to thee, land of my birth!
When tempests around thee shall rave,
Still-still may they homage thy worth!

Wife, infant, and country, and friend,
Ye wizard my fancy no more,
I fly from your solace, and wend
To weep on some kindlier shore.

The grim-visaged fiend of the storm
That raves in this agonized breast,
Still raises his pestilent form,

Till Death calm the tumult to rest.

To my Daughter, on the Morning of her Birth

Hail to this teeming stage of life!
Hail, lovely miniature of life!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!

Lamb of the world's extended fold!

Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of extatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

'Tis nature's worship-felt-confess'd,
Far as the life which warms the breast:
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan,
The rudest portraiture of man,

In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb-the secret start-
The hidden impulse of the heart.

Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears,
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou dar'st not speak,