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STANZAS.

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear—
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine cye:

The tears refuse to start;

But every drop its lids deny

Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.-
They cannot petrify more fast

Than feelings sunk remain, Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past, But never melt again.

LINES,

FOUND IN THE TRAVELLER'S BOOK AT CHAMOUNI.

How
In age, or clime, or character, or creed!
Here wandering genius leaves a deathless name,
And Folly writes-for others do the same.
Italian treachery, and English pride,

many number'd are, how few agreed,

Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side!
The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow.
Knew men the objects of this varied crew,
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school;
And travelling problems, that admire by rule.
The timorous poet woos his modest muse,
And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews.
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have heard before.
Here critics too (for where 's the happy spot
So blest by nature as to have them not?)
Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise;
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast.
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen.
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came :
Bere beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock,
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block,
Sees the white giant in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, while hastening to the blest remains
And calmer beauties of the classic plains.

And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky,
And views and wonders on his way to die.

But he, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines? For him what friend is trae, what mistress blooms, What joy clates him, and what grief consumes?

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Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below;
We are jealous?-Who 's not?-Thou hast no such
alloy,

For the more that enjoy thee, the more they enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its jollities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find-Do we not ?-In the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left!--Was she not?-But the goblet we kiss,
And care not for hope who are certain of bliss!

Long life to the grape! and when summer is flown.
The
age of our nectar shall gladden our own;
We must die!-Who shall not?-
-May our sins be for-

given,

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TO MARY.

REMIND me not, remind me not,

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, When all my soul was given to theeHours that may never be forgot, Till time unnerves our vital powers, And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget, canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did prove?

Oh, by my soul! I see thee yet,

With eyes so languid-breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd, yet
raised desire;
And still we near and nearer prest—
And still our quivering lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other scek;
Veiling the azure orbs below-
While their long lashes' darkening gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smoothed in snow.

VERSES

ADDRESSED TO THE OBJECT OF HIS AFFECTIONS AFTER

HER MARRIAGE.

THERE was a time I need not name,

Since it will ne'er forgotten beWhen all our feelings were the same, As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour, when first thy tongue Confessed a flame which equalled mine, Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, Unknown, and thus unfelt by thine:

None-none hath sunk so deep as this,

To think how soon that love hath flown,
Transient as every faithless kiss-
But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes, my adored! yet most unkind, Though thou wilt never love again, To me 't is doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes, it is a glorious thought to me,

Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art, or e'er shalt be, Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

ON LEAVING ENGLAND.

"T is done! and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail :
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast-
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen-
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest,
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.

T is long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;

I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face:
And even in crowds I am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home:
Till I forget a false fair face,

I ne'er shall find a resting-place:

My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship's or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or lover I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go! but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me,
There's not a kind congenial heart
Where I can claim the meanest part:
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene

Of what we are, and what we 've been-
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe:
But mine, alas! has stood the blow,
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear, loved one may be

Is not for vulgar eyes to see;-
And why that love was early crost,
Thou knowest the best-I feel the most:
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I've tried another's fetters, too,

With charms, perchance, as fair to view.
And I would fain have loved as well--
But some unconquerable spell

Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

"I would soothe to take one lingering view,

And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him who wanders o'er the deep,-
Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,
I love but thee-I love but one.

THE END.

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