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Love born in hours of joy and mirth,

With mirth and joy may perish;
That to which darker days gave birth

Still more and more we cherish.

It looks beyond the clouds of time,

Through Death's dim shadowy portal ;
Made by adversity sublime,
By faith and hope immortal !



Perhaps I love To visit my heart's treasure by that light When misers seek their buried hoards; to steal Upon the loved one, like a mermaid's song, Unseen and floating between sea and sky; To creep upon her in love's loveliest hour, Not in her daylight beauty with the glare Of the bright sun around her; but thus pure, And white, and delicate, under the cool moon, Or lamp of alabaster. Thus I love To think of thee, thou dear one! thus with flowers About thee, and fresh air, and such a light, And such a stillness ; thus I dream of thee !


He who would stem a stream with sand,
And fetter flame with flaxen band,
Hath yet a harder task to prove-
By firm resolve to conquer love !

Sir W. Scott.


Sweet as the cry of joy, or as the song

Of tender birds - like the beloved tone

Of one who loves us, loved by us alone Such are the honey'd accents of thy tongue ; Like Orpheus' lyre, so eloquent, so strong :

Such sounds the Muse herself might not disown,

So speaks harmonious, her most favour'd son, And

pours the rapturous tide of verse along. Oh! if fond love should once that voice inspire, And breathe the mingling harmony of sighs,

The soul of such rare music ne'er could tire;
It speaks the ecstasy of Paradise.

Sure then, thy sweetness might a mortal move
And win at once to more than mortal love.

God gives us Love. Something to love

He lends us; but when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone!



Il faut l'avoir connu l'affreux malheur de vivre loin de ce qu'on aime, pour pouvoir se faire une idée des ravissemens qu' éprouve notre ame, lorsqu'on lui rend le bien qu'elle avoit perdu. Il faut avoir répandu les larmes amères de l'absence pour sentir toute la volupté des douces larmes du retour. Je te plains, malheureux amant, qu'un sort cruel a forcé de quitter l'objet de tes veux. Chaque pas que tu fais ajoute à tes maux; chaque heure te rappelle un plaisir perdu : tu calcules avec désespoir tous les instans qui s'écouleront avant la fin de ton exil ; tu crois les abréger en les recomptant. Tu portes sans cesse les yeux sur le chemin qui conduit aux lieux où tu laissas ton cour; tu le mesure avec effroi ; et le voyageur que tu découvres sur cette route te semble jouir d'un destin plus heureux que celui des rois. Je te plains : mais que tu seras digne d'envie le jour où tu revoleras vers elle ! le jour où, reconnaissant de loin sa maison, tu la verras attendre l'heureux instant qui doit payer tant de chagrins ! Ah! cet instant s'il se prolongeoit, tu ne pourrois le supporter; ton ame, qui trouva de la force contre les maux, serait accablée de tant de bonheur.



If long I linger'd to avow

The latent flame my bosom proved,
Yet, fairest, dearest, deem not thou

I feebly felt, or lightly loved ;
I came not with the wealthier throng

Who breathed their heartless vows to thee; Yet, maiden! I have loved thee long,

And not the less though hopelessly.
For, oh! I deem'd not it could be
That thou shouldst deign to smile on me ;
For how should friendless misery gain
The prize by monarchs sought in vain ?
How should the falcon meet that sun
Which eagles dare not gaze upon ?



One after one the joys of youth

Had died away,
And visions of unfading truth,

As false as they ;

Then came a dark and dreary chill,

More sad than grief ;
The very pang that bade me feel

Had seem'd relief.

I saw thee smile ; the icy chain

Began to melt;
I heard thee speak; and once again

I lived, I felt !

Thy gentle care once more for me

Hope's garland wove;
And all my soul's dark apathy,

Touch'd by thy love

Grew rapture

as the languid mist
Of sullen hue,
By morning's summer radiance kiss'd

Melts in bright dew.

And thou hast given me light and life,

Fond hopes, sweet fears ;
The varying passions' pleasing strife,
And smiles and tears.


I fain would sing, but will be silent now,
For pain is sitting on my lover's brow;
And he would hear me—and, though silent, deem
I pleased myself, but little thought of him,

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