Yet, haply lest I check the mounting fire,
O friends, that in your revelry appears!
With you I’ll breathe the air which ye respire,
And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre
When it is wet with tears.
Each in his secret heart perchance doth own
Some fond regret ’neath passing
smiles concealed;—
Sufferers alike together and alone
Are we; with many a grief to others known,
How many unrevealed!
Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,
For tender recollections, cherished long,
For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,
We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains
Only for sport and song!
Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:
In vain I strove their parting to delay;
Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,
Like an o’erclouded smile, that in the face
Lightens, and fades away.
Fraser’s Magazine
("Le voile du matin.")
[Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.]
The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,
Old towers gleam white in the ray,
And already the glory so joyously seeks
The lark that’s saluting the day.
Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,
Though, were you swept hence in the night,
From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare
At the sun rising newly as bright.
But out of earth’s trammels your soul would
have flown
Where glitters Eternity’s stream,
And you shall have waked ’midst pure glories
unknown,
As sunshine disperses a dream.
("Le parfum d’un lis.")
[Bk. V. xiii.]
The lily’s perfume pure, fame’s crown
of light,
The latest murmur of departing day,
Fond friendship’s plaint, that melts at piteous
sight,
The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,
The kiss which beauty grants with coy
delay,—
The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow
As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun;
The thrilling accent of a voice we know,
The love-enthralled maiden’s secret vow,
An infant’s dream, ere life’s
first sands be run,—
The chant of distant choirs, the morning’s sigh,
Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon’s
frame,—
The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,—
The sweetest gems that ’mid thought’s
treasures lie,
Have naught of sweetness that can match
HER NAME!
Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,
Yet in each warbled song be heard the
sound;
Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,
The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,
The selfsame voice forever makes resound!
O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,
My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,
With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim,
Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,
Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,—
