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Farewell to thee, France!--but when Liberty rallies
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE.
THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes
away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull
decay; ?Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which
fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of hap
piness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes
down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And tho' the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice ap
Tho' wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the
breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former
hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves aronnd the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey be.
Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished
scene: As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish tho'
they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow
THE FAREWELL TO MY HARP.
DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
That ev’n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go,--sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb’d at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, påssing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own!
AND THOU ART DEAD.
AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
Too soon returned to Earth!
In carelessness or mirth,
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
So I behold them not;
It is enough for me to prove
Like common earth can rot;
”Tis Nothing that I lov'd so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
And canst not alter now.
Nor falsehood disavow :
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine;
Shall never more be thine.
Nor need I to repine
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
Than see it pluck'd to day;
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
Had worn a deeper shade:
Extinguish’d, not decay'd;
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
One vigil o'er thy bed;
Uphold thy drooping head;
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee! The all of thine that cannot die