May that kind power who thus auspicious gave
A mind so gentle to a form so fair;
From every grief and care my favorite save,
breath of Fortune's ruder air.
While some dear youth shall share MATILDA's heart,
Her cares partake, her tenderness repay;
The Bard shall oft invoke the Muse's art,
To give these hours the bloom of Love and May.
O lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!
When peace and joy no more remain,
And gathering glooms the scene o'ercast;
When hope is heard, alas! in vain;
The bitterness of death is past!
O! lay me where my child is laid,
And bind his turf upon my breast;
Here, let me join his parted shade,
And gently sink with him to rest!
YE hills of my country, soft fading in blue;
The seats of my childhood, for ever adieu!
Yet not for a brighter, your skies I resign,
When my wandering footsteps revisit the Rhine:
But sacred to me is the roar of the wave,
That mingles its tide with the blood of the brave;
Where the blasts of the trumpets for battle combine,
And the heart was laid low that gave rapture to mine.
Ye scenes of remembrance that sorrow beguil❜d,
Your uplands I leave for the desolate wild;
For nature is nought to the eye of despair
But the image of hopes that have vanish'd in air:
Again ye fair blossoms of flower and of tree,
Ye shall bloom to the morn, tho' ye bloom not for me;
Again your lone wood-paths that wind by the streami,
Be the haunt of the lover-to hope-and to dream.
But never to me shall the summer renew
The bowers where the days of my happiness flew ;
Where my soul found her partner, and thought to bestow
The colours of heaven on the dwellings of woe!
Too faithful recorders of times that are past,
The Eden of Love that was ever to last!
Once more may soft accents your wild echoes fill,
And the young and the happy be worshippers still.
To me ye are lost!—but your summits of green
Shall charm thro the distance of many a scene,
In woe, and in wandering, and deserts, return
Like the soul of the dead to the perishing urn!
Ye hills of my country! farewell evermore
As I cleave the dark waves of your rock-rugged shore,
And ask of the hovering gale if it come
From the oak-towering woods on the mountains of home.
ON marble tombs let no rich essence flow,
No chaplet bloom, no lamp suspended glow;
Vain cost! While yet I live, these honours pay:
Wine can but moisten ashes into clay.
(The occasion that gave rise to the following Poem, may require explanation. A Lady had presented to the Author an Emblematical Drawing, accompanied with the following Lines:
"Tel fut L'Amour au Siecle D'Or-on ne le trouve plus, mais on le cherche encore-n'offrant qu'un 86 cœur a la Beauté, aussi nud que la Verite, sans armes comme L'Innocence, sans ailes comme la "Constance."-)
SOFT as the down descends to deck
The plumage of the cygnet's neck,
Soft as the silent zephyrs breathe,
Nor wake the slumbering wave beneath,
Thy pencil's light and shadowy line
Describes the delicate design :-
Union of taste and skill!-to prove
"Such in the Golden Age was Love.”
See where yon infant Cupid stands :-
His arm the subject globe commands;
There pours his torch the living fire
Of Joy, and Hope, and bold Desire;
Around his altar lies the bow
That lays the strongest warrior low;
And darts of thrilling force, that prové
What "in the Golden Age was Love.”
Yet why, where Love in height sublime
Triumphant rules o'er Fate and Time,
Where his full quiver's feathery pride
Proclaims o'er all his empire wide,
Why on his altar's trophied base
Would'st thou the name of Friendship * trace?—
Not to this heart can Friendship prove
What "in the Golden Age was Love."
Friendship! the cold, reluctant name
Would quench the warmest, tenderest flame:
See, where Love lights his living lamp!
The sacred fire shall Friendship damp?
Love's arrow in my breast I feel;
No wound of Love can Friendship heal.
Ah never can thy Friendship prove
What" in the Golden Age was Love!”
And "cannot Love on earth be found
"Though sought of all, the world around?"
Is the bright charm thine hand pourtray'd,
Now vanish'd to an empty shade?
Ah no!-within this faithful breast
Still reigns the power of Love confest;
And still to thee its truth shall prove
"Such in the Golden Age was Love."
* The word L'Amitie was inscribed on the Drawing.
|