Could gold thy truant fancy bind— I gave thee all that fortune lent me ! Who vow'd to love, and "love sincerely," When wealth could never charm my breast,— Tho' thou wert poor, I lov'd thee dearly! Seek not the fragile dreams of love: In wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee. Though fickle passions cease to burn Of her who lov'd thee truly-dearly? When war shall rouse the brooding storm, Borne on the wild and restless billow; Whose heart, like mine, shall throb sincerely? Or who thy heart in spells shall bind, When hers is broke that lov'd thee dearly? When thou contending throngs shall court, No friend, in grief, to share a part Like her who lov'd thee long and dearly! Could I to distant regions stray, From thee my thoughts would never wander; For, at the purpling close of day, By some lone vagrant rill's meander, Each wand'ring bee, each chilling wind, Would tell the heart that's broken nearly, In them, where'er they rove, to find The faults of him I lov'd so dearly! I will not court thy fickle love; Soon shall our fates and fortunes sever: Far from thy sight will I remove, And, smiling, sigh "adieu for ever!" Give to the sordid friends thy days; Still trust that they will act sincerely,— And when the specious mask decays, Lament the heart that lov'd thee dearly! For time will swiftly journey on, And age with sickness haste to meet thee, Friends prov'd deceitful will be gone, When they no more with smiles can cheat thee: Then wilt thou seek in vain to find A faithful heart that beats sincerely, A passion, cent'ring in the mind, Which, scorning interest, lov'd thee dearly! When in the grave this heart shall sleep, No soothing dreams shall bless thy slumber; For thou wilt often wake to weep, And in despair my sorrows number! My shade will haunt thine aching eyes, Which lov'd thee long, and lov'd thee dearly! Mrs. Robinson. CANZONET. TRANSLATED FROM CAMOENS. THOU pride of the forest! whose dark branches spread O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow, Because in thy shade, as I lately reclin'd, The sweetest of visions arose to my view; 'Twas the swoon of the soul-'twas the transport of mind 'Twas the happiest minute that ever I knew. For this shalt thou still be my favourite tree,- shade. Lord Strangford. Compare the above with Mr. Sheridan's "Uncouth is this moss cover'd grotto of stone," Vol. 1. p. 57. MY MOTHER. WHO fed me from her gentle breast, And hush'd me in her arms to rest, And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? My Mother. When sleep forsook my open eye, And rock'd me that I should not cry? My Mother. Who sat and watch'd my infant head, And tears of sweet affection shed? My Mother. When pain and sickness made me cry, Who gaz'd upon my heavy eye, And wept, for fear that I should die? My Mother. Who drest my doll in clothes so gay, And minded all I had to say? My Mother. |