Hours of Idleness

TO EMMA

Since now the hour is come at last,
   When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
   One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,
   Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
   Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
   And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
   We shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement's height,
   We view's the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
   We lingering look a last farewell,

O'er fields through which we used to run,
   And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
   Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
   Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss
   It dared to give your slumbering eyes:

See still the little painted bark,
   In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,
   The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

These times are past — our joys are gone,
   You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes I must retrace alone:
   Without thee what will they avail?

Who can conceive, who has not proved,
   The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
   You bid a long adieu to peace.

This is the deepest of our woes,
   For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
   Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!
 
 

TO M. S. G.

Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
   Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
   Alas! it were — unhallow'd bliss.

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
   How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
   For that,— would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
   Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,— and why?
   I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
   Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
   To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
   United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,
   Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
   Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
   Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortur'd heart,
   By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
   Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
   More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
   I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
   And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
   All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
   No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
   No martyr shalt thou be to love.
 
 

TO CAROLINE

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
   Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmov'd thy plenteous sighs,
   Which said far more than words can say?

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
   When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
   Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as thine own.

But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
   When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
   Were lost in those which fell from thine.

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
   Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
   In sighs alone it breath'd my name.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
   In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
   But that, will make us weep the more.

Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
   Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
   Our only hope is, to forget!
 
 

TO CAROLINE

When I hear that you express an affection so warm,
   Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
   And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
   That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,
   Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
   Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining
   Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features,
   Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree,
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,
   In the death which will one day deprive you of me.

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
   No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
   A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us,
   And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,
   When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low,-

Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
   Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure,
   And quaff the contents as our nectar below.

1805
 
 
 

TO CAROLINE
 

Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
   Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
   But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses
   I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
   Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
   Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
   With transport my tongue give loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
   Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing
   Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
   Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
   In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.

Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,
   Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
   Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.
 
 

Stanzas To a Lady, With The Poems Of Camoëns

This votive pledge of fond esteem,
   Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
   A theme we never can despise.

Who blames it but the envious fool,
   The old and dssappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,
   In single sorrow doom'd to fade?.

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,
   For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead
   In pity for the poet's woes.

He was in sooth a genuine bard;
   His was no faint, fictitious flame.
Like his, may love be thy reward,
   But not thy hapless fate the same.

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