MUTABILITY. THE flower that smiles to-day All that we wish to stay, Tempts and then flies; What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright. Virtue, how frail it is! Friendship too rare! But we, though soon they fall, Whilst skies are blue and bright, Make glad the day; Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou-and from thy sleep Then wake to weep. To sit and curb the soul's mute rage Of fettered grief that dares not groan, Whilst thou alone, then not regarded, Of peace and pity fell like dew We are not happy, sweet! our state Is strange and full of doubt and fear; More need of words that ills abate; Reserve or censure come not near Our sacred friendship, lest there be No solace left for thou and me. Gentle and good and mild thou art, Nor can I live if thou appear Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart Away from me, or stoop to wear The mask of scorn, although it be To hide the love thou feel'st for me. SONG. RARELY, rarely, comest thou, Win thee back again? As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Reproach thee, that thou art not near, Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure, Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure. Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, The fresh Earth in new leaves drest, Autumn evening, and the morn I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost: I love waves, and winds, and storms, Which is Nature's, and may be I love tranquil solitude, As is quiet, wise, and good; What difference? but thou dost possess I love Love-though he has wings, Spirit, I love thee- O come, Make once more my heart thy home. ΤΟ WHEN passion's trance is overpast, The secret food of fires unseen, After the slumber of the year LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth? Art thou not overbold? What! leapest thou forth as of old In the light of thy morning mirth, The last of the flock of the starry fold? Ha! leapest thou forth as of old? Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, And canst thou more, Napoleon being dead? |