Sweet girl! may thy relics be laid in that shrine! For though death, we are told, is unconscious of love, Yet it soothes me to hope they may mingle with mine, As our spirits will mingle for ever above. And if, when the race of our being is run, Any record remain of the loves that we bore, Our story shall be, that in life we were one, And in dying we met to be parted no more. SAPPHO'S DEATH SONG. L. E. L. FAREWELL, my lute!-and would that I And fever has breathed in thy words. Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song! If song be past, and hope undone, And pulse, and head, and heart are flame, It is thy work, thou faithless one! But no! I will not name thy name! Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vow'd to thee! Long be their light upon my grave, My glorious grave yon deep blue sea; I shall sleep calm beneath its wave! The Improvisatrice. STANZAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE ENVELOPE OF A LOCK OF HAIR, Alaric Watts. PLEDGE of a love as pure and deep As ever thrill'd in mortal breast! Recal thee from the couch of rest, No! bright as was thy brief career, In this wild waste of storm and gloom, In loneliness I'd rather languish, Besides, would even Heaven allow Thy advent to this earth again, Since human ills-a numerous train, Would cross thee in thy path of life, Yet, looking on this sun-bright tress Unlocks the source of dried up tears, And thoughts intense and maddening press On my hot brain;-though hopes or fears, Since thou and thy sweet mother perish'd, Have ne'er by me been felt or cherish'd. BLOSSOM OF LOVE! Yes, on my mind BLOSSOM OF LOVE! farewell!-farewell! Thoughts that to thine and thee belong, Will ever bloom as fresh and fair As when they first were planted there! And, oh! if tears of woe may nourish TO THE PO. * Byron. RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls What if thy deep and ample stream should be What do I say ? "A mirror of my heart!" Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong: Such as my feelings were and are, thou art, And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them; not for ever Thy bosom overboils: congenial river, Thy floods subside-and mine have sunk away! But left long wrecks behind us, and again, Borne on our old unchanged career we move: Thou tendest wildly to the main, And I to loving one I should not love, • These verses were written by Lord Byron, when the Countess G. was at Ravenna, and he was travelling down the Po to join her. The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unchained from Summer's heat. She will look on thee: I have look'd on thee, Her bright eyes will be imaged on thy stream- The wave that bears my tear returns no more, But that which keepeth us apart, is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, But the distractions of a various lot, Ah, various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves a lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd By the black wind that chills the Polar flood. My blood is all meridian: were it not I had not left my clime:-J should not be, In spite of torture ne'er to be forgot, A slave again of love-at least of thee. |