Oft have I sighed for pleasure past,
Oft wept for secret smarting —
But far the heaviest drop of all
That ever on my cheek did fall
The tear was at our parting.

Why did our bosoms ever beat
Harmonious with each other,
If truest sympathies of soul
Might broken be, perhaps the whole
Concentred in another?

My fear it was when other scenes,
With other tongues and faces,
Should greet thee, thou would'st haply be

'Tis true , that me , with roses crown'd,
The tear of Sympathy has found,
 And been at once obey'd:
That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk—when pale Misfortune's hour
 Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true , that in the moral grief
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,
 Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught
 How dearly Pain can please!

I LOOK on thee once more,—
I gaze on thee and sigh,
To think how soon some hearts run o'er
With love, and then run dry.

I need not marvel long
That love in thee expires,
For shallowest streams have loudest song,
Most smoke the weakest fires.

I deemed thee once sincere,—
Once thought thy breast must be
A fountain gushing through the year
With living love for me!

For so it was with mine,
The well-springs of my soul
Were opened up, and streamed to thine,
As their appointed goal.

A SERENADE .

Hark ! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute,
As softly it plaineth o'er
The story of one to whose lowly suit
Thy heart shall beat no more!
List to its tender plaints, my love,
Sad as the accents of saints, my love
Who mortal sin deplore!

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake,
'Tis sorrow that tunes these strings;
A last farewell would the minstrel take

O Love , how full of comfort is thy soul!
How full of hope the prospect of thine eye!
Thy prophecy doth time, and chance control:
Beneath thy shadow I securely lie
Safe anchored to an everlasting peace,
O'er which our changeful fortunes have no power.
Mutation and decay their havoc cease
To dream away the uneventful hour,
Beauty wears hues it never wore before,
Young joy, no longer spurns this dusty earth,
And rapture on the heart's deserted shore
Rolls its succeeding waves. — There is a dearth
In Sorrow's shrunken realm of sighs and tears,

Sweet Innocent! what Angel's hand shall guide
Those tempting beauties, that will soon inflame
The amorous Libertine to vice and shame,
Polluting what he loves — the maiden's pride —
With arts, or gifts, that subtle counsels hide,
And rebel passions, that ascendant claim;
Which nothing but the sad reverse can tame
Of infamy — to penitence allied? —
Beware of Man! till Honour gives the word
Of ripe assent, improv'd by Love's delay; —
The word, that choice and sympathy have bound
With sacred impulse, and with hearts preferr'd.

The Merry Gallant girds his sword,
And dons his helm in mickle glee!
He leaves behind his lady love
For tented fields and deeds which prove
Stout hardiment and constancy.

When round him rings the din of arms, —
The notes of high-born chivalry,
He thinks not of his bird in bower,
And scorns to own Love's tyrant power
Amid the combats of the Free.

Yet in the midnight watch, I trow,
When cresset lights all feebly burn,
Will hermit Fancy sometimes roam
With eager travel back to home,

" THERE 's not a power in stern philosophy
Sufficient to control this eating grief,
No mortal circumstance can bring relief — "
This was my constant cry — " Ah wretched me!
Beyond the passing hour I nothing see,
But the dead flower, sour fruit, and blasted leaf,
And all the haggard shapes of misery,
With haunting care, life's ever-present thief."
Thus as I sorrowed — 'twas the year's fresh prime —
I saw a form born of the heaven and earth,
Clad in unparalleled grace, defying time
With her rich loveliness, that made a dearth

To thee, Sennuccio! fearless I can paint
The habit of a life that shuns repose:
My heart with its accustom'd passion glows; —
'Tis Laura's yet; — nor strong my hopes, nor faint,
But varied ever — as that lovely Saint
In light or shade my fond attachment throws.
Her delicacy's temper'd sweetness knows
The charm which no mis-construing thought can taint;
Which blames, and yet approves: — to-day , the soft
Endearments reign — the Loves their influence breathe;
To morrow , distant and reserv'd her air —

P RIEST

Awake, it is Love's radiant hour of praise!
Bring new-blown leaves his temple to adorn,
Pomegranate-buds and ripe sirisha -sprays,
Wet sheaves of shining corn.

P ILGRIM

O priest! only my broken lute I bring
For Love's praise-offering!

P RIEST

Behold! the hour of sacrifice draws near.
Pile high the gleaming altar-stones of Love
With delicate burdens of slain woodland deer