Vain world! whose dreams and shadows mock;
Whose follies cheat the eye,
Till age, the base delusion, shows,

Just time enough-to die.*

1819-1825.

"Since, where thou art, I may not dwell,
"Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been."

FARE thee well, dearest, peace be thine,
Though my lone day be dark, with sorrow,
May each of thine, more brightly shine,
And happier still, thy every morrow.
Yes-round thy heart, may joy and peace,
Contentment's garland, greenly wreathe,
Its buds of peace, each day, increase,
And every floweret, sweeter breathe.

Farewell-thou goest to spread delight,
Where'er thy peaceful presence beams;
And tho' the light, that blessed my sight,
With warmest ray, no longer gleams;
Yet, fare thee well; in joy and woe,
The heart, that long has loved thee dearly,
No change can know, where'er it go,
But still must dote on thee, sincerely.

And, when no more, that soft blue eye,
Light of my way, life's beacon-star,
With cheering rays, around me plays,
Nor throws its moonlight smile, afar;
Oh, then, each loved and lonely scene,
I'll haunt, where thou wert wont to dwell;
And sweetly dream, and fondly deem;

I hear thee say, "Farewell,-Farewell!"

Sept. 4, 1819.

*These poems, in the order in which they are here (with a few others), appeared in the first edition of "Songs by the Way" published in New York, by E. Bliss and

E. White, 128 Broadway, in A. D. 1824.

"A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fall,

What tho' the least-Love consecrates them all."

AND canst thou ask me, why this rose
Is held, so precious, by my heart?
And knowest thou not, that Love bestows
On slightest gifts, the faded flower,
The severed lock, a mystic power,

Can ne'er depart?

And canst thou ask me, what the charm, That makes this withered rose, so dear? And why, preserved from hurt or harm, While other flowers have fallen, unwept, Like sainted relic, this is kept,

Year after year?

And canst thou ask me, what the worth,
Which can attach to thing, like this?
And why, what seems like merest earth,
What finds no grace, in eye of thine,
Should be so doted on, by mine,

In secret bliss?

Then thou hast never felt the power,
Of ceaseless, solitary love;

Hast never known, how every hour,

Spent with that one beloved alone,

Will still be prized, when years have flown,

All hours, above.

Aye prized; though that were idle word,
To speak the fond and fixed delight,
Which hangs on each soft accent heard,
Each look dwelt on, as if the last,
Each well remembered moment, passed,
In her loved sight.

Then hast thou never known, what charm,
Love, to least relic, can impart;

Nor how, like vine that's sheltered warm,
It spreads its tendrils more and more,
And twines still closer, than before,
Round the fond heart.

Years may roll on. Stern fate may blight
The loveliest visions of the heart;
Then, as such relic, meets the sight,

Fond memory, on the past, will dwell,
And hope, of happier hours, will tell,
Hours, ne'er to part.

Oh! not the flower in blooming pride,
At times like this, will most delight:
Gazed on, by many an eye beside,

Admired by some, and praised by all,
Its common charms, but cheaply fall,
On Love's sad sight.

Then, emblem of his own sad lot,

The heart that loves, and loves unblessed,
Will prize the flower by all forgot,
Wrest it from elemental strife,
And press it, like a thing of life,

To his own breast:

And keep it there; that faded rose,

Shut from the cold, and common world;

Till cherished long, at last it grows,

Part of his life, his fondest care,

Like magic word, which none may hear,

None, e'er hath heard.

But oh! if once, in happier hours,

When life was young, and earth seemed heaven,

When every step was stepped on flowers,

And all, to his delighted eyes,

Seemed fair, as primal Paradise, That flower was given,

By her, who shed on all this scene,
Its light, and life, and loveliness;
Whose eye, his star of hope, had been,

Her smile, the mild and mellowed ray,
That cheered his heart, and lit his way
To happiness:

Think then, how round his heart of hearts,
Relic of love, that flower would twine;
Nor, dearest, ask, tho' time departs,

Though wavelike, year is rolled on year,
Why cherished still, and still, more dear,
This rose of thine.

1823.

"To say I've thought of thee."

AND is it so and hast thou thought,
Beloved one, of me—

Deep, in my bosom's inmost cells,
That thought shall treasured be:
And often, to that secret haunt,
Shall memory repair,

To watch, with more than miser's joy,
The wealth, that's buried there.

At midnight, shall that blessed thought,
Compose my throbbing heart,
And bid the spectre-cares, that haunt
That holy hour, depart;

And when the morn, rejoicing, brings

Its glad and golden ray,

That recollected thought shall lend,

New lustre, to the day.

Yes, Mary! deep within my breast,

It shall forever lie:

Like sacred relic, unprofaned,

By cold, or common, eye:

1824.

And often, shall my pilgrim thoughts,
Frequent that hallowed shrine,
For hallowed, must I deem the spot,
That harbours aught of thine.

Thither, shall fond affection, oft,
Her choicest offerings bring;
And ardent Hope, oft linger there,
To plume her weary wing;

And thence, her strains be wafted, oft,

The syren Memory;

And this, the sweetest of them all,

"To say, I've thought of thee."

1825.

1825-1828.

LINES ON A SEAL.

The device, a leaf.

The motto, "Je ne change, qu'en mourant."

IN bower and garden, rich and rare,
There's many a cherished flower,
Whose beauty fades, whose fragrance flits,
Within the flitting hour.
Not so the simple forest leaf,

Unprized, unnoted lying,
The same, thro' all its little life,
It changes, but in dying.

Be such, and only such, my friend,
Once mine, and mine for ever:
And here's a hand, to clasp in thine,
That shall desert thee, never.
And thou, be such, my gentle love,

Time, chance, the world, defying;
And take, 'tis all I have, a heart,
That changes, but in dying.