Oh knew I the depth of that Emerald spell, And had I the gold it brings, I would never load with a feaster's joy My spirit's mounting wings. I would bind no wreath to my brow to-day, That would leave a stain to-morrow, Nor drink a draught of joy to-night That would change with morn to sorrow. But, oh! I would burst this chain of forms, And be spirit and fancy-free; For costly aid to my mind alone Should my gold be scatter'd free. I would place my foot on my heaps of ore To mount to Wisdom's throne, And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine, To be left, of care, alone. Ambition! my lip would laugh to scorn But come with the glory of human thought, There was one mild eye-there was one deep tone— They were dear to this heart of mine! Dearer to me was that mild blue eye Than the light on Wisdom's shrine. But it could not buy her wing from heaven, That first deep love I have taken back With the tear it brought for a burning seal, I may stretch on now to another goal- But, alas! I am dreaming as if I knew Is the hope on which I lean. There is nothing true of my idle dream But the wreck of my early love, And my mind is coin'd for my daily bread, THE BROKEN BRACELET. 'Twas broken in the gliding dance, When thou wert in thy dream of power, When lip and motion, smile and glance The light lay soft upon thy brow, The music melted in thine ear, And one, perchance forgotten now, With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near, Marvelling not that links of gold A pulse like thine had not controll'd. 'Tis midnight now-the dancers goneAnd thou in thy rich dreams asleep; And I, awake, am gazing on The fragments given me to keep. I think of every glowing vein That ran beneath these links of gold, And wonder if a thrill of pain Made those bright channels ever cold! With gifts like thine, I cannot think Grief ever chill'd this broken link. Good night! 'tis little now to thee That in my ear thy words were spoken, And thou wilt think of them, and me, As long as of the bracelet broken. That thou hast fasten'd but to break, TO JULIA GRISI, AFTER HEARING HER IN "ANNA BOLENA." WHEN the rose is brightest, Its bloom will soonest die; When burns the meteor brightest, "Twill vanish from the sky. If Death but wait until delight O'errun the heart, like wine, And break the cup when brimming quite, I die for thou hast pour'd to-night The last drop into mine. |