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The painful thought of what has been
The canker worm that is not seen.

But I, as o'er the dark blue wave

Unconsciously I ride,
My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave,

My soul is by thy side.
There is one voice that wails thee yet
One heart that cannot e'er forget

The visions that have died :
And aye thy form is buried there-
A doubt-an anguish-a despair i




Fare thee well, soul of sweet Romance ! farewell,

Harp of the South! the stirring of whose strings Has given, by power of their melodious spell,

Such pleasant speed to Time's else weary wings, That-rapt in spirit to the Delphic cell,

Midst its green laurels and prophetic springs, The tuneful labours of past years now seem A brief indulgence-an enchanted dream.

My pride at noon, my vision of the night,

My hope at morn, my joy at lonely eve ! Now that thy tones of magical delight

Are o'er, do I not well to droop and grieve ?

To what new region shall the Muse take flight,

What pictures fashion, what fresh numbers weave, When all that else had charm'd must now appear Tame to the eye and tuneless to the ear?

Much shall I miss tbee when, in calm repose,

The Summer moon upon my casement shines ; Much, when the melancholy Autumn strows

With leaves my walk beneath th' o'erarching pines. Nor less when Spring, 'twixt shower and sunshine,

Abroad the sweet breath of ber eglantines,
And Winter deepens with its stormy din
The quiet charm of the bright hearth within.

If with no vulgar aim, no selfish view,

I sought to give thy foreign chords a tongue, Let not my hopes all pass like morning dew,

When on thy cypress bough again thou’rt hung ; But sometimes whisper of me to the few

I love, the fond, the faithful, and the young, And those who reverence the wrong'd soul that plano'd Thy world of sound with archangelic hand.

Hear how the strings, dear IDA, sound abroad

The grief and glory of that matchless mind !
What ardour glows in each seraphic chord ;

How deep a passion Echo leaves behind !
Yet was he wretched whom all tongues applaud;

For peace he panted, for affection pined:
Be thou, whilst thy mild eyes with pity swim,
More kind to me than AURA was to him ;-

Else shall I little prize th' indulgent praise

Which some may lavish on a task so long; - Else shall I mourn, that e'er my early days

Were given to feeling, solitude, and song ; But thee no light capricious fancy sways, To doubt thy truth would he the heavens to

wrong ; Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell ! And thou, Hesperian Harp, farewell, farewell !



Couldst thou but know what 'tis to weep

To weep uppitied and alone,
The livelong night whilst others sleep,
Silent and mournful watch to keep,

Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

Couldst thou but know what 'tis to smile,

To smile when scorn'd by every one ;
To hide by many an artful wile
A heart that knows more grief than guile,

Thou wouldst not do what I have done.

And, oh! if thou couldst think how drear,

When friends are changed, and health is gone,
The world would to thine eyes appear,
If thou, like me, to none wert dear,
Thou wouldst not do what I have done.



Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye!
Spirits whose smiles are—like thine-of the sky,
Play thee to sleep with their visionless strings,
Brighter than thou-but because they have wings !
- Fair as a being of heavenly birth,
But loving and loved as a child of the earth !

Why is that tear ? Art thou gone, in thy dream,
To the valley far off, and the moon-lighted stream,
Where the sighing of flowers, and the nightingale's song,
Fling sweets on the wave, as it wanders along?
Blest be the dreams that restore them to thee
But thou art the bird and the roses to me!

And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone,
And hear thy low breathing, and know thee mine own,
And muse on the wishes that grew in that vale,
And the fancies we shaped from the river's low tale,
I blame not the fate that has taken the rest,
While it left to my bosom its dearest and best.

Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye,
Love be a rainbow to brighten thy sky!
Oh! not for sunshine and hope would I part
With the shade time has flung over all—but thy heart!
Still art thou all which thou wert when a child,
Only more holy-and only less wild !



REMEMBER me, when summer friends surround thee,

And honied flatteries gain thy willing ear ; When fame and fortune's glittering wreaths have

crown'd thee, And all is thine thy fickle heart holds dear,Then think of her whose changeless fortunes bless'd

thee, When hope was dark, and faithful friends were few, Who, when hard griping poverty depress'd thee,

And all beside seem'd cold, was kind and true.

Remember me, in courtly hall and bower,

And when thou kneel'st at some fond beauty's shrine, Ask of the past, if through life's varying hour,

Its joys and griefs, her love can equal mine! And when thy youthful hopes are most excited,

Should she prove false, and break her faith like thee, Think of the hopes thy wayward love hath blighted,

And from that lesson learn to feel for me!

Remember me, and oh! when fate hath 'reft thee,

Of fame and fortune, friends and love, and bliss, Come back to one thou know'st would ne'er have left

thee, And she'll but chide thy falsehood with a kiss ! But no, no, no, I feel tha life is waning, —

That what I was I never more can be, That I am fast on that sweet haven gaining,

Where there is rest for e'en a wretch like me!

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