TO A LADY.

WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK."

AH! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams, To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood,

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed, Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings, And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, Now groans, and shivers the replunging bark!

66

Cling to the shrouds!" In vain! The breakers

roar

Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a ship-wreck'd man!

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains, And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?

The elevating thought of suffered pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the

name

Of gratitude! remembrances of friend,

Or absent or no more! shades of the Past, Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send, O dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and head,

Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee:

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

TO A YOUNG LADY

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.

WHY need I say, Louisa dear!

WHY

How glad I am to see you here,

A lovely convalescent;

Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
And feverish heat incessant.

The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
The little birds that warble high,
Their vernal loves commencing,
Will better welcome you than I
With their sweet influencing.

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:

You made us grow devouter!

and seemed to say,

How can we do without her?

Besides, wnat vexed us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going:
This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!

Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
On to her father's house. She is alone!

The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit-
And fit it is I should restore this sketch,
Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn
To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed
The passion that consumes me. Let me haste!
The picture in my hand which she has left;
She cannot blame me that I followed her:
And I may be her uide the long wood througn.

Sandoval. Did you not say you wooed her?

Earl Henry.

Her whom I dared not woo!

Sandoval.

One whom you loved not!

Earl Henry.

Once I loved

And wooed, perchance,

Oh! I were most base

Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her,
Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she
Met my advances with impassioned pride,
That kindled love with love. And when her sire,
Who in his dream of hope already grasped
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected
My suit with insult, and in memory

Of ancient feuds, poured curses on my head,
Her blessings overtook and baffled them!

But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously. But Oropeza

Earl Henry. Blessings gather round her!
Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden.—
The night ere my departure to the army,
She, nothing trembling, led me through that
gloom,

And to that covert by a silent stream,
Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
Was the sole object visible around me.
No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry;
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
No leaflet stirred ;—yet pleasure hung upon
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.
A little further on an arbor stood,

Fragrant with flowering trees-I well remember
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness

Their snow-white blossoms made-thither she led

me,

To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled―
I heard her heart beat-if 'twere not my own.
Sandoval. A rude and scaring note, my friend!
Earl Henry.
Oh! no!

I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,
Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy.
The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
Like eyes suffused with rapture.-Life was in us:

We were all life, each atom of our frames
A living soul-I vowed to die for her;

With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it;

That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile]. No other than as eastern sages paint,

The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,
Relapses into bliss.

Earl Henry.

Ah! was that bliss

Feared as an alien, and too vast for man?

For suddenly, impatient of its silence,

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.

I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on

them.

Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice :-
"Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?"
I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed
The purpose and the substance of my being,

I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,
I would exchange my unblenched state with hers.—
Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower
I now will go-all objects there will teach me
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her—
Say nothing of me-I myself will seek her-
Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye.—

[Earl Henry retires into the wood.]