WELCOME, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow;
The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine :-
Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine.
Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks,
The white were all too happy to look white:
For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks;
It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright!
Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf
Curls manifold,-all love's delights blow double :
'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief,—
But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.
I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon;
Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night;-
'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon!
And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light!
These golden Buttercups are April's seal,-
The Daisy stars her constellations be:
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,
Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!
Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom,
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours :-
A wight once made a dial of their bloom,—
So may thy life be measured out by flowers!
THE dead are in their silent graves,
And the dew is cold above,
And the living weep and sigh,
Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead,
But now the living cause my pain:
How couldst thou steal me from
my tears,
To leave me to my tears again ?
My Mother rests beneath the sod,-
Her rest is calm and very deep :
I wish'd that she could see our loves,—
But now I gladden in her sleep.
Last night unbound my raven locks,
The morning saw them turn'd to gray,
Once they were black and well beloved,
But thou art changed,—and so are they!
The useless lock I gave thee once,
To gaze upon and think of me,
Was ta'en with smiles,-but this was torn
In sorrow that I send to thee!
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking ;---
Here's enow for sad thinking!
COME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief,
That makes her accents so forlorn ;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn,—
True honour's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have water'd since the world was born.
The world!-it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy phantasy
Makes all things weep with me!
Come let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds, where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heav'n black with misery.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we ?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats,
Except sweet nightingale; for she
Was born to pain our hearts the more
With her sad melody.
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