She thanked him with a look upturned to his,
The which he answered by a tender kiss,
Pressed and prolonged to pain! her lip was cold,
And all her love and terror mutely told.
ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TRANSLATION OF TASSO.
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 charmed, must now appear Tame to the eye, and tuneless to the ear?
Much shall I miss thee, 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 her eglantines,
ENVOY TO THE AUTHOR'S TASSO.
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 wronged soul that planned
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 be the heavens to wrong;
Peace to thy spirit with the closing spell!
And thou, Hesperian Harp, farewell, farewell!
'Tis night, and in darkness;-the visions of youth Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind; The hopes that excited have perished;-and truth Laments o'er the wreck they are leaving behind. 'Tis midnight;—and wide o'er the regions of riot
Are spread, deep in silence, the wings of repose; And man, soothed from revel, and lulled into quiet, Forgets in his slumber the weight of his woes. How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven, Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest: Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,
To omen a something like hope in the breast.
Hark! how the lone night-wind up-tosses the forest;
A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals:
But, ah! 'tis the tempests of Fortune, that sorest
The desolate heart in its loneliness feels.
Where, where are the spirits in whom was my trust;
Whose bosoms with mutual affection would burn?
Alas! they are gone to their homes in the dust;
The grass rustles drearily over their urn:
Whilst I, in a populous solitude languish,
'Mid foes who beset me, and friends who are cold:
Yes, the pilgrim of earth oft has felt, in his anguish,
That the heart may be widowed before it be old!
Affection can soothe but its vot'ries an hour,-
Doomed soon in the flames that it raised to depart;
But, oh! Disappointment has poison and power
To ruffle and fret the most patient of heart!
How oft, 'neath the dark-pointed arrows of malice,
Hath merit been destined to bear and to bleed;
And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice,
Can tell that the dregs are full bitter indeed!
Let the storms of adversity lour,-'tis in vain,
Though friends should forsake me, and foes should condemn;
These may kindle the breasts of the weak to complain,
They only can teach resignation to mine:
For far o'er the regions of doubt and of dreaming,
The spirit beholds a less perishing span;
And bright through the tempest the rainbow is stream. ing,
The sign of forgiveness from MAKER to Man!
Dost thou idly ask to hear
At what gentle seasons
Nymphs relent, when lovers near
Press the tenderest reasons?
Ah, they give their faith too oft
To the careless wooer!
Maidens' hearts are always soft,-
Would that men's were truer !
Woo the fair one, when around
Early birds are singing;
When, o'er all the fragrant ground,
Early flowers are springing:
When the brookside, bank and grove,
All with blossoms laden,
Shine with beauty, breathe of love,-
Woo the timid maiden,
Woo her when, with rosy blush,
Summer eve is sinking;
When, on rills that softly gush,
Stars are softly winking;
When, through boughs that knit the bower,
Moonlight gleams are stealing;
Woo her, till the gentle hour
Wakes a gentler feeling.
Woo her, when autumnal dyes
Tinge the woody mountain;
When the dropping foliage lies
In the half-choked fountain;
Let the scene that tells how fast
Youth is passing over,
Warn her, ere her bloom is past,
To secure her lover.
Woo her when the north winds call
At the lattice nightly;
When, within the cheerful hall,
Blaze the faggots brightly;
While the wintry tempest round
Sweeps the landscape hoary,
Sweeter in her ear shall sound
Love's delightful story.
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