The fatal hour which bade us part
Wounds not alike thy tender heart;
And light to me the pangs I bear,
Compared with knowing thy despair:
My knell will soon be rung; thou, lady, live,
And taste the joys which youth and beauty give!
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.
I SAW the virtuous man contend
With life's unnumber'd woes;
And he was poor-without a friend-
Press'd by a thousand foes.
I saw the Passions' pliant slave
In gallant trim, and gay;
His course was Pleasure's placid wave,
His life a summer's day.
And I was caught in Folly's snare,
And join'd her giddy train-
But found her soon the nurse of Care,
And Punishment, and Pain.
There surely is some guiding Power
Which rightly suffers wrong-
Gives Vice to bloom its little hour-
But Virtue, late and long.
WATERS of Tejo, gentle streams, that flow
Through these fair meads, refreshing as ye go
Herbage and flowers and flocks, and with delight
Soothing the nymphs and shepherds on your shore,
I know not, gentle river, when my sight
Shall linger on your pleasant waters more.
And now I turn me from you, sad at heart,
Hopeless that fate my future lot will bless;
That evil fate which bids me now depart
Converts remember'd joy to wretchedness.
The thought of you, dear waters! oft will rise;
And Memory oft will see you in her dreams,
When I on other airs shall breathe my sighs,
And drop far off my tears in other streams.
WHEN I behold you, lady! when my eyes
Dwell on the deep enjoyment of your sight,
I give my spirit to that one delight,
And earth appears to me a paradise.
And when I hear you speak, and see you smile,
Full, satisfied, absorb'd, my centred mind
Deems all the world's vain hopes and joys the
As empty as the unsubstantial wind: [while
Lady, I feel your charms, yet dare not raise
To that high theme, the unequal song of praise,
A power for that to language was not given;
Nor marvel I, when I those beauties view,
Lady, that he whose power created you
Could form the stars and yonder glorious heaven.
MEEK spirit, who so early didst depart,
Thou art at rest in heaven! I linger here,
And feed the lonely anguish of my heart,
Thinking of all that made existence dear,
All lost! If in the happy world above,
Remembrance of this mortal life endure,
Thou wilt not there forget the perfect love
Which still thou seest in me, O spirit pure!
And if the irremediable grief,
The woe which never hopes on earth relief,
May merit aught of thee, prefer thy prayer
To God, who took thee early to his rest,
That it may please him soon amid the bless'd
To summon me, dear maid, to meet thee there.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.
I WHISPER'D her my last adieu,
I gave a mournful kiss ;
Cold showers of sorrow bathed her eyes,
And her poor heart was torn with sighs;
Yet-strange to tell-'twas then I knew
Most perfect bliss.-
For Love, at other times suppress'd,
Was all betray'd at this—
I saw him weeping in her eyes,
I heard him breathe among her sighs, And every sob which shook her breast
Thrill'd mine with bliss.
The sight which keen affection clears,
How can it judge amiss?
To me it pictured hope, and taught
My spirit this consoling thought,
That Love's sun, though it rise in tears,
May set in bliss.
WHEN day has smiled a soft farewell,
And nightdrops bathe each shutting bell,
And shadows sail along the green,
And birds are still, and winds serene,
I wander silently.
And while my lone step prints the dew,
Dear are the dreams that bless my view!
To Memory's eye the maid appears,
For whom have sprung my sweetest tears,
So oft, so tenderly:
I see her, as with graceful care
She binds her braids of sunny hair;
I feel her harp's melodious thrill
Strike to my heart, and thence be still
Reechoed faithfully:
I meet her mild and quiet eye,
Drink the warm spirit of her sigh,
See young Love beating in her breast,
And wish to mine its pulses press'd,
God knows how fervently!
Such are my hours of dear delight,
And morn but makes me long for night,
And think how swift the minutes flew,
When last among the dropping dew
THOU hast an eye of tender blue,
And thou hast locks of Daphne's hue,
And cheeks that shame the morning's break,
And lips that might for redness make
Roses seem pale beside them;
But whether soft or sweet as they,
Lady, alas! I cannot say,
For I have never tried them.
Yet, thus created for delight,
Lady! thou art not lovely quite;
For dost thou not this maxim know,
That Prudery is Beauty's foe,
A stain that mars a jewel!
And e'en that woman's angel face
Loses a portion of its grace,
If woman's heart be cruel!
Love is a sweet and blooming boy,
Yet glowing with the blush of joy,
And (still in youth's delicious prime)
Though aged as patriarchal Time,
The withering god despises :
Lady! wouldst thou for ever be
As fair and young and fresh as he-
Do all that Love advises.
THOU pride of the forest! whose dark branches
[green, To the sigh of the south wind their tremulous And the tinge of whose buds is as rich and as red
As the mellowing blushes of maiden eighteen!
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