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Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one !—forsake if thou wilt ;-
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it—whatever thou mayst.
And stern to the haughty but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign-
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

[“ Thou hast asked me for a song,” Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Moore, " and I enclose you an experiment which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase.” Letter, May 10, 1814.]



Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve !
In beauty's light you glide along :
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your voice as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives
This heart with passions soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of woe.

When sinking low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretcht to save,
Fair as the bosom of the swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve !



Canadia! boast no more the toils
Of hunters for the furry spoils ;
Your whitest ermines are but foils

To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst
From climes with rigorous winter curst ! -
We bless you, that so kindly nurst

This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display
Of lake-wood-vast Niagara :
Your greatest pride we've borne away,

How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell : Canadia, you repaid us well

With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share : You've scarce a native maid so fair,

So good, as Catherine Orkney.



Born 1792-Died 1829.

The fountains mingle with the river,

And the river with the ocean ; The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single;

All things, by a law divine, In another's being mingle ;

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven,

And the waves clasp one another! No leaf or flower would be forgiven,

If it disdain'd to kiss its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all those kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?



I rise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright; I rise from dreams of thee, And a Spirit in my

feet Has led me--who knows how?

To thy chamber window sweet.

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark and silent stream, The Champak odours fall

Like sweet thoughts in a dream. The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart, As I must upon thine,

Beloved as thou art !

O lift me from the grass !

I die, I faint, I fail ;
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white alas !

My heart beats loud and fast ; Oh! press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last.



Though time has not wreathed

My temples with snow, Though age hath not breathed

A spell o'er my brow, Yet care's wither'd fingers

Press on me with pain ; The fleeting pulse lingers,

And lingers in vain.

The eyes which behold thee,

Their brightness is flown;
The arms which enfold thee,

Enfeebled are grown :
And friendship hath left me,

By fortune estranged ;
All, all is bereft me,

For thou, too, art changed !

Yes, dark ills have clouded

The dawning in tears ;
Adversity shrouded

By ripening years,
Life's path wild and dreary,

Draws nigh to its close ;-
Heart-broken and weary

I sigh for repose.

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