Nor need I write-to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak : Oh! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak? By day or night, in weal or woe, And silent ache for thee. March, 1811. (A Greek Melody, arranged by J. NATHAN.) ENTER thy garden of roses, Each morning where Flora reposes, Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, But the loveliest garden grows hateful That herb is more fragrant than flowers. But when drunk to escape from thy malice, My heart from these horrors to save : As the chief who to combat advances Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel ? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée ! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 1811. REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE. R EMEMBER thee! remember thee! Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not. Thy husband too shall think of thee! Thou false to him, thou fiend to me! NE struggle more, and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee, Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below, What future grief can touch me more? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; I'll be that light, unmeaning thing That smiles with all, and weeps with none. |