I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, I swore, in a transport of young indignation, With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you-my anger became admiration; Aud now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! TO THE SAME. Он say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, 1807. [First published 1832.] BEGINNING TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET "SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, AND YET NO tear.'" THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty! Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it: Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, But would you make our bosoms bleed, March 8, 1807. [First published 1832.j ON FINDING A FAN. IN one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; As when the ebbing flames are low, Thus has it been with passion's fires- Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The first, though not a spark survive, No touch can bid its warmth return. Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, Its former warmth around another. 1807. First published 1832.] 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, When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 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 love? But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast- And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; 1807. [First published 1832.] TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.5 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years, I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal: 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 a while; When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 1807. [First published 1832.] |