Perhaps we ne'er may meet again—
If so, I would we ne'er had met!
For then without one throb of pain
I could have seen the white sail set,
And stemmed the deep: but now regret
Around my aching heart shall wind-
For ah, that heart can ne'er forget
The bright blue eyes it leaves behind!

Farewell! I dare not ask the boon

Of e'en a transient thought on one

Who, like a lonely cloud in June,

Just crossed thy sight, and then was gone:

But thou shalt brightly beam upon

My memory like a hallowed spell,

Whilst joylessly I journey on

Through this bleak world-farewell! farewell!

ΤΟ

Young Beauty! when the soul would speak Fond, fervent things, its voice should steal Along the lyre, for lips were weak

Mine dare not utter all I feel!

Bright as some angel in a dream
You crossed my cold and clouded way,

But, while I gazed upon the beam,

Its lustre led my heart astray.

I told my fate-your bosom's swell
Rose quicker in its beauty's pride;
I told my love-and need I tell
How tenderly your eyes replied?

I pressed your hand-it trembled-yet
'Twas not withheld at caution's call;
Your ripe red lips and mine have met-
Enchantress! and must this be all?

Oh no! for, tho' your bosom seems
Less warm than once, I will not yet
Believe the idol of my dreams

Could sink into a mere coquette.

SHAKSPEARE

Thy genius, like a burning glass, converged
Ten thousand rays of glory to a ring;

And at its light the waking soul emerged
From darkness, as the lotus-flower in spring
Floats on the surface of the fount, to kiss
Each golden beam that prompts her blossoming:
Like that famed lamp the Arab youth made his,
Thy rays transmute to gems the darkest thing.
O Shakspeare! did thy erring pinion miss
Some loftier planet in its wandering?

And wast thou doomed (in punishment) to bear

Whate'er our terrene state or stars inflict?

Like him who lost the crown which seraphs wear By violating Eden's interdict.

ΤΟ

Lady! it hath been said that "Man is born
To trouble as the sparks fly upward"-thou
And I myself, have felt this truth ere now!
But who hath found his path without a thorn?
None, Lady-none, save those whom Nature's scorn
Cursed with hard hearts that beat not to the tune
Which feeling plays on thrilling souls like thine!
Nor, deeming such more fortunate, repine—
For they, like weeds beneath the chill-rayed morn,
Grow rank without sensation. Grief is mine
To see thee grieve—yet chide I not thy weeping!
Unwept we cannot those we loved resign;

And oh, his memory in the cold grave sleeping

May claim thy innocent heart's most holy keeping!