ILT thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet

bowers,

Heaping over their

corpses cold

Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?

Blossoms which were the joys that fell,
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.

II.

Forget the dead, the past? O yet

There are ghosts that may take revenge for it, Memories that make the heart a tomb,

Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,

And with ghastly whispers tell

That joy, once lost, is pain.

To Mary

MARY dear, that you were

here

With your brown eyes bright and clear,

And your sweet voice, like a bird

Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate;
Voice the sweetest ever heard!

Mary dear, come to me soon,
I am not well whilst thou art far
As sunset to the spherèd moon,
As twilight to the western star,
Thou, beloved, art to me.

O Mary dear, that you were here;
The Castle echo whispers " Here!"

On a Faded Violet

I.

HE odour from the flower is

gone

Which like thy kisses breathed

on me;

The colour from the flower is flown

Which glowed of thee and only thee!

II.

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm,
With cold and silent rest.

I

weep,

III.

my tears revive it not!

I sigh, it breathes no more on me;

Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.

October, 1818

ANY a green isle needs must be

In the deep wide sea of

misery,

Or the mariner, worn and wan,

Never thus could voyage on

Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,

Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;

And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as ever still
Longing with divided will,
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on

O'er the unreposing wave

To the haven of the grave.

What, if there no friends will greet;
What, if there no heart will meet
His with love's impatient beat;
Wander wheresoe'er he may,
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress

In friendship's smile, in love's caress?
Then 'twill wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no: