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LOVE'S LAST EVENING.

Oh! that word was, how sad a word it is !

SHAKSPERE.

Dost thou recall it ?—'twas a glorious eve !
The air was precious with the breath of flowers
That had been weeping, — and the harps of eve
Play'd vespers to the stars ! --and in the blue,
The deep blue sky, (how beautiful she look'd !)
Stood the

young

moon !

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Thou dost know how many years,
How long and well my soul has worshipp'd thee,
Till
my

mind made itself a solitude
For only thee to dwell in, — and thou wert
The spirit of all fountains in my breast !

- We will not speak of that; but oh! that eve Amid the pines, our fondest and our last ! (Ere it had cross'd my heart, or thine, to think That we could part,—and one could change so soon) How it has haunted me, with all the sounds That made it silent,— and the starry eyes And flitting shapes that made it solitude ! Did I not love thee ! - oh! but for one throb, One pulse of all the pulses beating then ; One feeling—though the feeling were a pang ! One passion—though the passion spoke in tears!

-oh! the queen,

I deem'd thy love was boundless ;
The eastern queen, who melted down her pearl,
And drank the treasure in a single draught,
Was wiser far than hearts that love too well,
If love be finite! — In that last adieu
Our young and ardent spirits burnt away,
And flung their ashes on the winds of heaven !
Our love has perish'd like the sound that dies,
And leaves no echo, — like the eastern day
That has no twilight, like the lonely flower
Flung forth to wither on the wind, that wastes
Even its perfume : dead, thou false one ! dead,
With all the precious thoughts on which it fed,
And all the hopes which made it beautiful,
Sound, light, and perfume, gone--and gone for ever!

J. K. HERVEY.

Ah, me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth :
But either it was different in blood,
Or else misgrafted in respect of years ;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends :
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it;
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ;

Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth ;
And, ere a man hath power to say, Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up :
So quick bright things come to confusion !

SHAKSPERE.

Le véritable amour ne peut exister sans l’estime ; mais l'estime la plus parfaite ne suffit pas pour l'amour. Cette passion si douce et si violente, source de plaisirs et de peines, de tourmens et de délices, cette flamme qui consume, et fait vivre, ne s'allume jamais qu'une fois. Les ames pures savent l'immoler à la vertu, et donner ensuite au devoir tout ce qui dépend encore d'elles : mais cet attrait, ce charme irrésistible, cet élan rapide de toutes les pensées, de tous les sentimens vers un seul objet, ces craintes terribles, ces vives espérances, et ces profondes douleurs pour un regard de colère, et ces ravissemens inexprimables pour un serrement de main, on ne les éprouve plus ; ils sont passés avec le premier amour. Le cæur n'en est plus susceptible. C'est le lis coupé sur sa tige; la plante vit encore, mais ne produit plus de fleurs.

FLORIAN.

LOVE'S DARING.

Oh, never did achievement rival Love's,
For daring enterprise and execution !
It will do miracles : attempt such things
As make ambition, fiery as it is,
Dull plodding tameness in comparison.
Talk of the miser's passion for his store -
'Tis milk and water to the lover's, which
Defies the mines of earth and caves of ocean
To match its treasure ! Talk of height, breadth,

depth,
There is no measure for the lover's passion,
No bounds to what 'twill do!

SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

THE FAREWELL.

Farewell, fair Rosebud of the isles !

Yet one farewell to thee;
Brief was the blessing of thy smiles,

Like all of bliss for me.
Deputed dreams ! sent down to bless

The sleep of beauty, tell
With what impassion’d tenderness

The minstrel breathes farewell !

Oh! tell her she's my sheltering tree,

My love-star o'er the waves,
The camel's treasured draught to me,

That midst the desert saves.
This heart itself a desert bare

As that my footstep knows;
One only rose left blooming there,
And she that virgin rose.

ISHMAEL FITZADAM.

MERCENARY LOVE DESPISED.

Lady,
Ye who have dwelt upon the sordid land,
Amidst the everlasting gloomy war
Of Poverty with Wealth - ye cannot know
How
we,

the wild sons of the ocean, mock
At men who fret out life with care for gold.
Oh! the fierce sickness of the soul — to see
Love bought and sold, and all the heaven-roof'd

temple Of God's great globe, the money change of Mam

mon! I dream of love, enduring faith, a heart Mingled with mine — a deathless heritage Which I can take unsullied to the stars, When the Great Father calls his children home ;

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