Come then-ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, Ye droop, fond flowers! But did ye know Her riches to the stores of Art, By one short hour of transport there. Mix with the dust from whence I came, GIFFORD. WRITTEN TWO YEARS AFTER THE · PRECEDING. I WISH I was where Anna lies, Go, and partake her humble bier, I lost my all; and life has proved Since that sad hour a dreary void, A waste unlovely and unloved. But who, when I am turn'd to clay, Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there?' And who with pious hand shall bring The flowers she cherish'd, snowdrops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and, would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deplore— Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, Thy grave must then undeck'd remain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy spirits frolicksome as good, 6 Thy gay good humour-Can they fade!" Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye; GIFFORD. THE SORROWS OF MEMORY. In vain to me the howling deep Stern Winter's awful reign discloses ; Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly, How many summers pass'd away, For then I loved thee,-oh! how dearly! And though the flush of joy no more That's loved thee long and loved thee dearly! Could gold thy truant fancy bind, A faithful heart would still content me ; For oh! to gain a heart unkind, I gave thee all that fortune lent me. In youth when suitors round me press'd, Who vow'd to love and love sincerely, When wealth could never charm my breast, Though thou wert poor, I loved thee dearly! Seek not the fragile dreams of love, Such fleeting phantoms will deceive thee; They will but transient idols prove, In wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee. Oh, dost thou think the sordid mind, When thou art poor, will feel sincerely? Wilt thou in such that friendship find Which warm'd the heart that loved thee dearly? Though fickle passion cease to burn For her so long thy bosom's treasure, Oh, think that reason may return, When far from thee my paths I measure. Say who will then thy conscience heal, Or who will bid thy heart beat cheerly? Or from that heart the memory steal Of her who loved thee long and dearly? When war shall rouse the brooding storm, Borne on the wild and restless billow; Whose pulse like mine shall throb sincerely? Or who thy heart in spells shall bind, When hers is broke who loved thee dearly? Could I to distant regions stray, From thee my thoughts would never wander; For at the parting close of day, By some lone vagrant rill's meander, In them whene'er they roam to find I will not court thy fickle love, Soon shall our fates and fortune sever; And smiling sigh, Adieu for ever. Fortune will swiftly journey on, And age and sickness haste to meet thee, Friends and deceitful wantons shun, When they no more with smiles can cheat thee. Then wilt thou ask in vain to find A faithful heart that beats sincerely, A passion centring in the mind Which, scorning interest, loved thee dearly! |