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Tis silent all !-but on my ear
The well-remember'd echoes thrill,
A voice that now might well be still.
Even slumbor owns its gentle tone,
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
Must pass when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
December 6, 101
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.
From pangs that rend my heart in twain ;
Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is filed below,
What future grief can touch me more? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring!
Man was not form'd to live alone; I'll be that light, unmeaning thing,
T'hat smiles with all, and weeps with nono. It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou Last fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou’rt nothing-all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
The heart—the heart is lonely stil!
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “Now Thyrza gazes on that moon'
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "'l'is comfort still," I faintly said,
“That Thyrza cannot know my pains Liko freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new ! How different now thou meet'st my gaze ?
How tinged by time with sorrow's kue ! The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still !
It feels, it sickens with the chill.
Though painful, welcome to my breast !
Or break the heart to which thou’rt press'd ! Time tempers love, but not removes,
More hallow'd when its hope is fled : Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep or wish the coining blow; No maiden, with dishevell’d hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near ; I would not mar one lour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless signs, Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives and him who dies. "Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last
Thy features still serene to see : Forgetful of its struggles past,
E'en Pain itself should smile on thaa.
But vain the wish-for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
Deceive in life, unman in death.
Without regret, without a groan;
And pain been transient or unknown.
Where all have gone, and all must go !
Ere born to life and living woe.
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
'Tis something better not to be.
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIL “ Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisge 1 AND thou art dead, as young and fair,
As aught of mortal birth;
Too soon return'd to Earth!
In carelessness or mirth,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
So I behold them not:
Like common earth can rot;
As fervently as thou,
And canst uot alter now.
Nor falsehood disavow :
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR.
10137 The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine :
Shall never Liore be thine.
Nor need I to repine
Must fall the earliest prey ;
The leaves must drop away:
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
To see thy beauties fade;
Had worn a deeper shade :
Extinguish'd, not decay'd ;
My tears might well be shed,
One vigil o'er thy bed ; To
gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, To fold theo in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
Though thou hast left me free,
Than thus remember thee !
Returns again to me,
SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN,
IF sometimes in the haunts of men
Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again
The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour
Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour
The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile
I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory! Nor deem that inemory less dear,
That then I seein not to repine ; I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.
It is not drain') to banish care ;
That brings a Lethe for despair.
From all her troubled visions free, I'd dasb to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of theo. For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn? And who would then remain behind
To honour thine abandon'd Urn! No, no—it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil ; Though all the world forget beside,
'Tis meet that I remember still.
For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou : And, oh! I feel in that was given
A blessing never meant for me; Tuou wert too like a dream of heaven,
For earthly Love to merit thee.
March 14, 1812