For frozen was the stream of song, Sweet spirit, wherefore thus unkind? Or cares, that on the bosom prey, Or has monastic solitude With its own sluggishness imbued Oh, no! though solitude, and care, They cannot rend apart The chord of feeling that replies To woman's smile, and voice, and eyes,- Nor think, whate'er the heartless deem, A theme of little worth: All things of glory or delight In nature, are the poet's right, His heritage by birth. The clouds, the stars, the meek-eyed moon, The splendours of the summer noon, The stream, the flower, are his ; Man's regal front-the mystery Whate'er is grand, or soft, or fair, That wakes the leaves from sleep: But woman's charm has stronger power, To pierce his spirit's inmost bower, And search its riches deep. Touch'd by the spell, his brain runs o'er Powers, from himself erewhile conceal'd, And wantons in the joyous field Of new-born energies. Then can it be, that, exiled long Or is it doubt, and anxious fear, The strain sound rude and bold? Whate'er the cause, forgive, sweet maid, To raise a note for thee; May wake a thought of me. TO MISS E. H. ON HER MARRIAGE. I'VE stood, as with a child's delight, Made glad the earth and skies; And darkness settled, cold and dull, To cheer our cloister'd loneliness, So did a lady come, She and her soft-eyed sister-grace, Her form, her mien, her joyous eye, A bright but transient iris cast: She came she shone-and she is past. The beam has vanish'd from our sight;- A star of never-setting light Within one happy home: The gentle warmth of that sweet smile, A deeper bliss must now impart, Then, lady, if my feeble song Thou wilt forgive the unwilling wrong Done to theme so blest. Join'd in the bonds of that sweet tie With him thou lovest best, May death but snap the chain of love To bind its links more firm above! WOMAN'S LOVE. Thou know'st it not-that calm bright eye The conscious love that closes mine Can wake no answering thought in thine: The speaking smiles I loved to trace Thou know'st not, that to treasure this Thou know'st it not-and I can bear This silent grief without a tear; But oh! when thy kind hand has press'd My own, and friendship's warmth express'd, I felt that hopeless tenderness! And I have felt the sharpest pang To see thine eye enamour'd hang On one dear form, one lovely face, E. H. And could my offer'd life but shed H. W. THE HOUR OF EXPECTATION. He comes not-He, whose sunny eye There does his precious image rest, Alone-adored; there go, sad thoughts, the while, He comes not-and my anxious ear Or try to still its throbs with thoughts of thee, And those sweet words of love so lately breathed to me. He comes not, this devoted hour, When every thought was his alone; When Love had dress'd sweet Fancy's bower, And many a tender word was framed to greet And shall not this fond eye grow dim Yes, my own love! this lingering hour VOL. I. PART II Yet bear its leaves of love some drops of balm, Our changeless faith to bless-our troubled hearts to calm. Soon shalt thou chase the trembling tear That rises from my heart for thee, Shall whisper love's dear vow to me, And fear's dim cloud shall pass, and sorrow's shower, In vain, till then, my restless sight Of love, that on my darkness breaks; As nought, but when they wake some tender thought of thee. Thou com'st not now-but soon that eye With love's own glance will answer mine, In one endearing smile of thine; And the dull pain of long-deferred bliss Be lost in Love's embrace-his dear and welcome kiss! H. W. A RECOLLECTION FROM MY TRAVELS. LEONORA. POOR Alonzo! he was the best friend that ever drank Xeres: he picked me out of the Guadalquivir, when I deemed I had said my last prayer. It was a very conciliating introduction. I never in my life made a friend of a man to whom I was introduced in a formal kind of way, with bows from both parties, and cordiality from neither. I love something more stirring, more animated; the river of life is at best but a quiet stupid stream, and I want an occasional pebble to ruffle its surface withal. The most agreeable introductions that ever fell to my lot were these;— my introduction to Pendragon, who was overturned with me in the York Mail ;-my introduction to Eliza, who contrived to faint in my arms on board the Albion packet;—and my introduction to Alonzo, who picked me out of the Guadalquivir. I was strolling beside it on a fine moonlight night, after a brilliant and fatiguing party, at which the Lady Isidora had made ten conquests, and Don Pedro had told twenty stories: I was tired to death of dancing and iced waters, glaring lights |