STANZAS FOR 'MUSIC.* ["THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE," &c.] "O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." GRAY'S Poemata. THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, [past. But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be [ness Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happi- again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; [breast, Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the of rest; 'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene: As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. March, 1815. *These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power, of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. ["THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS."] THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; Is thy sweet voice to me: And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before thee, With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. Would that breast were bared before thee Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Though the world for this commend thee Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Still thine own its life retaineth These are words of deeper sorrow And when thou would solace gather When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is press'd, 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, All my faults perchance thou knowest, Every feeling hath been shaken; Even my soul forsakes me now: SHAKSPEARE. BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred, (1) Mrs, Charlmont. |