One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee-not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed:
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thon canst wreak
Must fall upon-a nameless stone.



AH! Love was never yet without

The pang, the agony, the doubt,

Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,

While day and night roll darkling by.


Without one friend to hear my wo,

I faint, I die beneath the blow.

That Love had arrows, well I knew ;

Alas! I find them poison'd too.


Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net,
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire


A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.


Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel, nor pity pain,

The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.


In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.


My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?


Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter wo?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.


My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;

And still thy heart, without partaking

One pang-exults while mine is breaking.


Pour me the poison; fear not thou!

Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,

And Love, that thus can lingering slay.


My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know,

That joy is harbinger of wo.

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THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly, sought;

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought:

"Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 'Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.


The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
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
Is doom'd to all who love or live;


And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.


What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition,

As if a dream alone had charm'd?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!



REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.


That yielding breast, that melting eye,

A Too much invited to be blest:

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, represt.


Oh! let me feel that all I lost,

But saved thee all that conscience fears;

And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.


Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee, wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name.


Think, that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now in midnight solitude.


Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou had'st loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee!


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 wo, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall.

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