Or rather say at once, within what space AUTHOR. Call it a moment's work (and such it seems) A PHANTOM. LL look and likeness caught from earth, Had passed away. There was no trace A WORK WITHOUT HOPE. LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1827. LL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing— Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, YOUTH AND AGE. ERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, When I was young?-Ah, woful when! That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, Ere I was old! Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! It cannot be, that Thou art gone! Dew-drops are the gems of morning, When we are old: That only serves to make us grieve Y A DAY DREAM. :: My eyes make pictures, when they are shut :— Μ I see a fountain, large and fair, A willow and a ruined hut, And thee, and me, and Mary there. O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, Two dear names carved upon the tree! 'Twas day! But now few, large, and bright The stars are round the crescent moon! And now it is a dark warm night, The balmiest of the month of June! A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. O ever-ever be thou blest! For dearly, Asra, love I thee! This brooding warmth across my breast, Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither, The shadows dance upon the wall, By the still dancing fire-flames made; And now they slumber, moveless all! And now they melt to one deep shade! But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee: I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! But let me check this tender lay Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women! O FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE. FAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind! As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping; And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind, O'er willowy meads and shadowed waters creeping, And Ceres' golden fields;-the sultry hind Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. I NAMES. FROM LESSING. ASKED my fair, one happy day, By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neæra, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, Arethusa, or Lucrece. "Ah!" replied my gentle fair, 66 Beloved, what are names but air? |