Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, Each night was scattered by its own loud screams: Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain. That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he would For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noontide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. HOME-SICK. WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. And sweet it is, in summer bower, But what is all, to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore! 1798-9. THE HAPPY HUSBAND. OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing life, A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep! Of transient joys, that ask no sting And into tenderness soon dying, Wheel out their giddy moment, then A more precipitated vein Of notes, that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, That seems, yet cannot greater be! 1808 RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. I. How warm this woodland wild Recess ! Love surely hath been breathing here; And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks with faint caress, As if to have you yet more near. II. Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On seaward Quantock's heathy hills, Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray, And high o'er head the skylark shrills. III. No voice as yet had made the air · IV. As when a mother doth explore The rose-mark on her long lost child, I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved beforeSo deeply had I been beguiled. V. You stood before me like a thought, A dream remembered in a dream. But when those meek eyes first did seem VI. Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, 1806. THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL. AN ALLEGORY. I. HE too has flitted from his secret nest, Hope's last and dearest Child without a naine !-- |