Imágenes de páginas


That autumn evening I remember yet,
It was so full of joy; and you may say,
That I had little reason to forget
Such an occasion to my dying day;
I parted from her at eleven or past,
And little thought that parting was our last.

I knew there was a rival in the case,
A very rich and' very stupid fellow;
With bushy whiskers on an ugly face,
And a complexion not a little yellow;
Six feet in height, and of a stately carriage,
And of an age to make a prudent marriage.

But that did not diminish my surprise,
When, on the very afternoon succeeding,
A black-sealed billet met my startled eyes,
Filled to the brim with entertaining reading ;
It was, indeed, most singularly phrased,
And left me quite peculiarly amazed.

She was extremely sorry, on her soul,
Hoped I might still continue as a brother,
But circumstances, she could not control,
Forced her, alas! to marry with another;
And friends, regardless of her deep affection,.
Had interfered to sever our connexion!

I am not of the family of Stoics,

And thought at first of nothing short of death;;




And fell into the most insane heroics,

And raved till altogether out of breath ;
Then took a little walk to make my mind up,
On some fit means my short career to wind up.

Philosophy, however, is the only

Balm for the evils of this changing life ;
It soothes alike the married and the lonely,
Healing the ill of maiden or of wife;

Husbands and youthful bachelors may find, too,
A solace in it when they have a mind to.

And so I called it one more bubble broken,
Another vision faded quite away,
Another trusted promise falsely spoken,
Another star gone out, another ray
Of the proud sun extinguished, and so on
Till all my words and similes were gone.

I left my lodgings in the morning stage,
And spent a few weeks in a southern city;
My mind returned to me before an age,
And some few faces once again seemed pretty;
I found some cheeks as delicate as roses,
Some cherry lips, bright eyes, and well cut noses.

And when again the city of my birth

Was gladdened with my presence, then again The skies were blue and starry, and the earth Covered with snow and frost work; but the reis


Of love unchangeable and burning passion,
Was soon forgotten in the rounds of fashion.

I often see her in the bright saloon,

And sometimes turn her in the gay cotillion;
But all in vain, for she must marry soon,
With her old, ugly, crabbed, half a million;
We meet like strangers silent and unmoved,
Without a glance to tell that we have loved.

Mary! my love was centred all in thee,


With thought of thee my every hope was blended;
But, as the shadow flits along the sea,

My dream has vanished, and my vision ended;
And when thy lover leads thee to the altar,

My cheek shall never blanch, nor my voice falter.

I hope that heaven may crown thy life with joys,
I hope, sincerely, as a friend or brother,
That many curly-headed girls and boys
May in due time appear to call thee mother;
I hope, besides, that all of them may be
More true in faith, than thou hast been to me.

Farewell! my life may wear a careless smile,
My lips may breathe the very soul of lightness,
But the touched heart must deeply feel the while,
That life has lost a portion of its brightness;
And woman's love shall never be a chain,
To bind me to its nothingness again'





I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 't is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,

And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;

The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows

As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;

Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;

And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she


The image of themselves by turns-the idol of past years.



Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture

on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears,

When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragonHer health! and would on earth there stood some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.


'The memory of thy name, dear one,

Lives in my inmost heart,

Linked with a thousand hopes and fears,

That will not thence depart.'

THINGS of high import sound I in thine ears,
Dear child, though now thou mayest not feel

their power.

But hoard them up, and in thy coming years

Forget them not; and when earth's tempests lower,

A talisman unto thee shall they be.

« AnteriorContinuar »