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Lines to one who will scarcely understand them.

And little did the heartless crew

That clung around us, think how dear, This heart was ever priz'd by you,

Or yours was ever treasured here.

Oh, may it, dearest, still be thus,

Though some our blameless love condemn ;
Still let them envy-rail at us,
We will but smile and pity them!

And though the false-false-hearted friend,
With open hand and smiling eye,
May on our secret paths attend,

To sate his envious treachery;

We will but smile at all his arts,

Even when the cloud of malice lours,—
Detraction vain would strike at hearts,
So pure, so true, so fond, as ours!


To one who will scarcely comprehend them.
Oh, thou!- but no, I will not curse,
I will not vent one word of hate,
To tell the world, how deep- how worse
Than hell- thy name I execrate!

Thy fraudful words, so full of guile,

Thy hand in seeming friendship given, Oh, there is malice in that smile,

Would bar an Angel's flight to Heav'n!

That cold, unmeaning smile, that seems

But lent to hide the gloom beneath, As fall the cold moon's cheerless beams Upon the sepulchre of death!

But hence-my feeling should be o'er,

My pride of heart-which long bath borne me,

If, wasting one expression more,

I paus'd to tell how much I scorn thee!

My spirit must be low indeed,
And all my better feelings gone,
If from thy sting thou worthless weed!
My heart one inward pang should own,

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Parting Lines to

When late, depressed by slight and wrong,
From envious tongues too freely dealt,
I fled the scenes I cherished long,-
The shrine at which my heart had knelt.

I fed-but still thy malice strove,
With more than ev'n malicious spite,
To turn the heart of her I love

From him she would not-could not slight.

No, for that Angel heart is mine

Though thou and thine may call it sin,--
Though other arms that form entwine,
They cannot bind the soul within.

Then let thy well-dissembled hate

Invent-contrive-imagine ill ;-
And on thy poisons meditate-

My spirit shall despise thee still.

And from its towering height shall look
Proudly-as when in happier days,
Thy reptile glance it scorn'd to brook,
And turned to bask in beauty's rays!


Yes, dearest, we part-though the anguish of years
May darken each future enjoyment of life;
Far better to live ev'n in sorrow and tears,

Than here be the cause of disunion and strife.

I would not that those whom I hate and despise,
Again should renew what too long I have borne;
And oh, dearest- could I bear that the eyes
That only should honor-should view thee with scorn.

No, sooner the foot of the stranger shall tread
On my withering corse, in some desolate clime,
Than suspicion shall fling one reproach on thy head,
Or sully thy name with the shadow of crime.

Oh, no, for so deeply I treasure thy fame,

So dear to my heart is that worth I have known, That, sooner than malice should darken thy name, I would fly thee for ever-unfriended and lone!

Stanzas to the Memory of a departed Friend.

Farrewell then, my own one!-the days that are past
Shall live in my heart's recollection, and still
On the gloom of the future a faint ray shall cast,
That may brighten the dark tide of sorrow and ill:

And think not, my lost one, thou ever wilt be

Less dear to me now than in moments of bliss ; In the days of my glory I thought upon theeShould my spirit forget thee in moments like this?



To the Memory of an absent Friend.
Oh, it is not now ere his heart is cold,
Or his form from our eyes has faded,
That the tale of his sorrows should be told,
Which his early existence shaded.
'But when the light in that eye is dead,
And his spirit's no longer waking,
Oh, then we may speak of the soul that's fied,
Though our hearts at the sound be breaking!

For his heart was pure, and his spirit high,
And in vain could dishonor win him,
And the fire that flashed from his speaking eye,
Was a spark from the flame within him.
But oh, how few could the chain unwind
Of feeling, that seemed but given

To mark the proud course of the human mind,
In its daring flight to heaven!

And passion awoke a secret flame,
But it spoke no tone of gladness;
And he nurs'd that flame, through storm and shame,
'Till it preyed on his heart to madness.

From the friends he loved in his days of pride,

And her who could still adore him,
He fled-like the Dove o'er the stormy tide,
With the wide world all before him!


How sleepless and slowly the night passes over

With him, the poor wretch, of misfortune the sport; Who wanders, a homeless and fortuneless rover,

O'er the waste of that world which denies him support;

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The Kiss. Stanzas to

How bitter the tear through his eyelash that gushes,
As haply some thought of the joys that are flown
Through a vista of mem'ry unconsciously rushes,

And he feels that his heart is with sorrow alone!

Oh! slowly and sleepless his night passes over:

Yet with morn is the close of his wretchedness near?
Ah! no-for the phantoms that ceaselessly hover

Around his low couch, still resound in his ear :-
That "he never shall know what it is to be griefless"—
That "his woe-bringing pilgrimage ne'er shall be o'er,"
"Till, exhausted by suffering-lost-wretched-reliefless,
He sinks to the bed he shall rise from no more.

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When the friend whom I loved and had cherish'd,
In the days of my loneliness fled,
When each hope of my bosom had perish'd,
And feeling and passion were dead;
Thy spirit still hovered before me,-

Thy form in my heart was enshrin'd-
And memory bowed to adore thee,

With a pure and a passionless mind.

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Stanzas to


When the ties of affection were broken,
And those whom I valued were gone;
When the voice that in friendship had spoken,
Was now heard in malice alone;
I turned with a spirit unshaken

To the spot which thy presence had blest;
And deep was the spell which could waken
Remembrances long laid at rest.


In sorrow, thou ever wert near me,—
In gladness, thou didst not depart
In trouble, thy spirit could cheer me,—
And brighten the gloom of my heart.
But now, we are parted for ever.

Thy home is far distant from mine,—
And cold is this bosom that never
Again shall beat fondly to thine.

I met thee encircled by many

The young and the fair that we call ; Yet to me thou wert dearer than any, For I saw thee superior to all.

I gazed on thee silent and lonely,

Where rank, wealth, and beauty were mix'd,But still upon me--and me only, Thy blue eye was constantly fix'd.


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