As if these waited on thy golden lot, They blame thee for the faults that thou hast not. How can they hope that ever links will hold Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh gold? Or worse than even this, how can they think That vanity will bind the failing link? How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear Crowds', palaces' and cities' heartless air? When looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain, And nought of life is real but its pain; A marvel, and a sign for mockery; Where none must wander from the beaten road, All alike champ the bit and feel the goad. It is not made for thee, young Love! away! To where the green earth laughs to the clear day; These, Love, are haunts for thee: where canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd-but in solitude! LANDON. GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. "Leave me not!" was still The burden of their music; and I knew The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, Its own still world amid the o'erpeopled world, They crown me with the glistening crown I hear the pealing music of renown— Mine were a lone dark lot, They tell me that my soul can throw From thee, from thee is caught that golden glow, It gives to flower and skies Thence gleams the path of morning Over the kindling hills a sunny zone! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning With lustre not its own! Thence every wood-recess Is fill'd with loveliness, Each bower to ring-doves and dim violets known. I see all beauty by the ray That streameth from thy smile; Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Can that sweet light beguile ? Too pure, too spirit-like it seems, Of fear midst quivering joy, Yet must I perish if the gift depart— Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating heart! The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul. - a temple fill'd with thee! Seal'd would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free! Like a shrine 'mid rocks forsaken, Whence the oracle hath fled; Like a harp which none might waken So mute, so void, so shatter'd, Bereft of thee! Leave me not, Love! or, if this earth Yield not for thee a home, If the bright summer-land of thy June birth Send thee a silvery voice that whispers "Come!" Then, with the glory from the rose, With the sparkle from the stream, With the light thy rainbow-presence throws Over the poet's dream; With all th' Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love! It is the soft and silent hour HEMANS. When, mighty Love hath mightiest power Bid Reason's cold stern voice be still. Oh! never sounds in Beauty's ear Hath tinted with a crimson blush! SLIGHTED LOVE. May slighted woman turn, And as a vine the oak hath shaken off, But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how, |