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And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon a nameless stone.
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
AH! Love was never yet without
Without one friend to hear my woe,
Birds, yet in freedom shun the net
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
My light of life! ah, tell me why
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
The wholly false the heart despises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
As if a dream alone had charm'd?
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE."
THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why
And should'st thou seek his end to know:
But live until I cease to be.
["REMEMBER HIM," &c.]
REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
When neither fell, though both were loved. '
That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Oh! let me feel that all I lost
But saved thee all that conscience fears:
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!
This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroy'd might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Like mine is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died; let earth my bones resign: Fill up thou canst not injure me; The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
Quaff while thou canst another race,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce ; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;