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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,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.

March, 1811.

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(A Greek Melody, arranged by J. NATHAN.)

ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,

Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.

Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,
Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,

That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;

But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save :
Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.

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!
By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

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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;
Man was not form'd to live alone:

I'll be that light, unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none.

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