A FAREWELL. NOT ORIGINALLY WRITTEN IN THE AUTHOR'S OWN NAME. SWEET vale, tho' I must leave Thy green hills and thy waters, To charm thy winsome daughters, When I am far away. I'll think of thee, but not as men, The fairy lake, tho' still it seems, Is evermore a-flowing; A moment ends the silvery gleams That flash as we are rowing. Yet that smooth lake as smooth shall flow, And light oars flash, when gay youths row, When I am far away. So may the tide of virgin life, It dimple with a tear, As soon regain its sweet repose, And rest in peace, because it flows, For ever on its way. HORACE. BOOK I., ODE 38. "Persicos odi, puer, apparatus." NAY, nay, my boy-'tis not for me, With linden twine, Nor seek, where latest lingering blows The solitary rose. Earnest I beg-add not, with toilsome pain, Looks seemliest on thy brow; Nor me mis-seems, while, underneath the vine, Close interweaved, I quaff the rosy wine. DEATH. OH! weep not for the happy dead, To him her virgin soul was wed, And strong in love, to him she fled From mother's house, and parent's smiling board. Alas! we cannot choose but weep, For we are sore bereaven; And all of her that we can keep Is but an image on the deep, The deep calm soul, that shows reflected heaven. If angel spirits aught may know Of hearts they left behind, If e'er they cast a look below, The sacrifice of pious woe May yield a tender joy, even to the angel kind. INANIA MUNERA. AH! why should pity wet my bier, Perhaps, when life well nigh is spent, For sigh of ruth-Oh, wayward fate!— She cannot undo what is done; For, if a smile were like the sun, And sighs more sweet than gales that creep O'er rosy beds where fairies sleep, And every tear like summer rain To thirsty fields-'twere all in vain. VOL. I. I For never sun so bright was seen Thus sun, and wind, and balmy rain, TO MY UNKNOWN SISTER-IN-LAW. MARY, our eyes are strangers, but our hearts For one, whom love of thee hath sanctified. The secular pride of startling eloquence, The victory of wordy warfare-all That charm'd his soul in academic bowers. Not small the struggle and the sacrifice, When men of many fancies, daring minds, That for the substance and the form of truth Delight to fathom their own bottomless deeps, Submit to authorised creeds and positive laws, Appointed rites and ceremonial duty. |