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Give me again a faithful few,
In years, and feelings, still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous joy is but a name. And Woman! lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall.
This busy scene of splendid woe,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
I seek to shun, not hate, mankind; My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind; Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.*
LINES, WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM,
IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF HARROW
ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807. Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky, Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those, I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
the happy scenes they knew before; Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still.
Psalm lv. ver. 6.-_And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove, then would I fly away, and be at rest.' This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language.
Though drooping elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
How do thy brauches, moaning to the blast,
FARE THEE WELL.
Alas! they had been friends in youth ;
Coleridge's Christabel. FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee 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 shew! 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,. Ev’n its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe-
Could no other arm be found
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 th' undying thought which paineth
Is—that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
When our child's first accents flow,
Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my madness none can know;
Wither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Ev'n 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,
More than this I scaroe can die.
Honest-Honest Iago !
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, Which flattery fool'd not-baseness could not blind, Deceit infect not-near contagion soilIndulgence weaken-nor example spoilm Nor master'd science tempt her to look down On humbler talents with a pitying frown