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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

B

THE

POETICAL SKETCH-BOOK.

FLORANTHE.

Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met, and never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted!

BURNS.

Dost thou recall it? 'twas a glorious eve!
By heaven! I hear the waving of its woods,
Kissed into sighing; and its few faint stars
Look, yet, upon me, through the mist of years,

B

As, then, they looked, to listen to our vows!
The air was precious with the breath of flowers,
That had been weeping;-and the harps of eve
Played vespers to the stars!—and in the blue,
The deep-blue sky, (how beautiful she looked!)
Stood the young moon!-her cheek was very pale,
As thine is now, Floranthe! or as hers,

The night she sought her shepherd, on the hill,
And could not lift his eyelid, with her kiss!
Beautiful mourner!-oh! they wrong her truth
Who call her changeful!-many a live-long night,
She sits, alone, upon the hill-top, still,

To look for him who comes not ;-unlike thee, Oh, fair Floranthe!-save that both are sad, And widowed, now,-the false one and the true!

And thou, bright dreamer! thou to whom the stars
Of night were ministers, and whom their queen
Lulled, with immortal kisses, to thy rest!
Thou, whose young visions gather'd into one,

One dream of love and loveliness and light!

Thou, to whose soul a brighter thought was given Than his for whom Egeria sat, alone,

By the cool gushing fount!-Endymion!

Oh! not for thee-no, not for thee alone Have been such visitings!-Floranthe, hear! (But weep not!) thou dost know how many years, How long and well my soul has worshipped thee, mind made itself a solitude

Till

my

For only thee to dwell in,—and thou wert
The spirit of all fountains in my breast!

We will not speak of that !-but oh! that eve,
Amid the pines-our fondest and our last!
How it has haunted me, with all the sounds
That made it silent,—and the starry eyes
And flitting shapes that made it solitude!
Did I not love thee!-oh! for but one throb,
One pulse of all the pulses beating then!
One feeling, though the feeling were a pang!
One passion, though the passion spoke in tears!

Perhaps, we loved too well;-the burning thoughts

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