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LIKE as the culver on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her songs sends many a wishful vow
For his return that seems to linger late;
So I, alone now left, disconsolate,
Mourn to myself the absence of my love;
And wandering here and there all desolate,
Seek, with my plaints, to match that mournful dove.
Though absent, present in desires they be;
Our souls much further than our eyes can sec.
Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion;
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two 90
As stiff twin compasses are two;
The soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run:
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
Dr. John Donne.
It is as if a night should shade noon-day,
Or that the sun was here, but forced away;
And we were left, under that hemisphere,
Where we must feel it dark for half a year.
Short absence hurt him more,
And made his wound far greater than before;
Absence not long enough to root out quite
All love, increases love at second sight.
Thomas May's Henry II.
I do not doubt his love, but I could wish
His presence might confirm it: when I see
A fire well fed, shoot up its wanton flame,
And dart itself into the face of heaven;
grant that fire, without a fresh supply,
May for a while be still a fire; but yet
How doth its lustre languish, and itself
Grow dark, if it too long want the embrace
Of its loved pyle! how straight it buried lies
In its own ruins!
Robert Mead's Comfort of Love and Friendship
If she be gone, the world, in my esteem,
Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it
But dust and feathers.
John Crown's Ambitious Statesman.
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless;
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall,
And leave no memory of what it was!
Repair me with thy presence, Sylvia;
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain.
Shakspeare's Two Gent. of Verona
What! keep a week away? Seven days and
Eight score eight hours? and lovers' absent hours,
More tedious than the dial eight score times?
O weary reckoning!
Bertram, Bertram !
How sweet it is to tell the list'ning night
Pope's Eloisa. The name beloved. It is a spell of power
To wake the buried slumberers of the heart,
Where memory lingers o'er the grave of passion
Watching its tranced sleep.
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine!
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate,
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain-do all things but forget!
There's not an hour
Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee:
There's not a wind but whispers of thy name,
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale
Proctor's Mirandola. Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot If ever it has wash'd our distant shore.
The thoughts of other days are rushing on me, The loved, the lost,-the distant, and the dead, Are with me now, and I will mingle with them Till my sense fails, and my raised heart is wrapt In secret suspension of mortality.
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out
The way he went at parting,—but he came not!
There as she sought repose, her sorrowing heart
Recall'd her absent love with bitter sighs;
Regret had deeply fix'd the poison'd dart,
Cowper's Task. Which ever rankling in her bosom lies :
Not to understand a treasure's worth
Till time has stol'n away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.
Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves
To distant shores, and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers. Fancy, too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
In vain she seeks to close her weary eyes,
Those eyes still swim incessantly in tears,
Hope in her cheerless bosom fading dies,
Distracted by a thousand cruel fears,
While banish'd from his love for ever she appears.
Mrs. Tighe's Psyche.
As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us.
Oh! couldst thou but know Goldsmith's Traveller. With what a deep devotedness of woe
ABSENTEES - ABSTINENCE - ACCIDENT-ACCLAMATIONS.
I wept thy absence, o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
And memory, like a drop that night and day
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!
Moore's Lalla Rookh.
A boat at midnight sent alone
To drift upon the moonless sea,
A lute, whose leading chord is gone,
A wounded bird, that hath but one
Imperfect wing to soar upon,
Are like what I am, without thee!
The honours of the turf as all our own.
Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek,
And show the shame ye might conceal at home,
In foreign eyes!-be grooms and win the plate,
Where once your nobler fathers won a crown.
Moore's Loves of the Angels. Against diseases here the strongest fence
Mrs. E. Oakes Smith. His speech was answered with a general noise