ON THE DEPARTURE OF HIS WIFE FROM CALCUTTA.
Long is thy passage o'er the main,
And native air alone can save!
No friend thy weakness will sustain,
But India is, for thee, a grave!
Though winds arise, though surges swell,
Maria, we must say farewell!
Oh! I bethink me of the time,
When with each airy hope in view,
In triumph to this fervid clime
I bore a flowret nurs'd in dew!
No fears did then my joy reprove,
And it was boundless as my love!
Yet now to strangers I consign
Thy wounded mind, thy feeble health;
A charge more dear than life resign,
To watch a little worldly wealth.
Duty compels me to remain
But oh! how heavy feels the chain!
My dear Maria! smile no more?
This seeming patience makes me wild!
So would'st thou once my peace restore,
When, mourning for our only child,
Each faint appeal was lost in air,
Or turn'd my sadness to despair.
Alas! I only make thee grieve.
And hark! the boat awaits below!
They call aloud! and I must leave,
The tears my folly forc'd to flow.
Oh! had I but the time to prove,
That mine are only fears of love!
SONNET.
Urge me no more! nor think, because I seem
Tame and unsorrowing in the world's rude strife,
That anguish and resentment have not life
Within the heart that ye so quiet deem:
In this forc'd stillness only, I sustain
My thought and feeling, wearied out with pain!
Floating as 'twere upon some wild abyss,
Whence, silent Patience, bending o'er the brink,
Would rescue them with strong and steady hand,
And join again, by that connecting link,
Which now is broken:—O, respect her care!
Respect her in this fearful self-command!
No moment teems with greater woe than this,
Should she but pause, or falter in despair!
ON THE REGRET OF YOUTH.
Before a rose is fully blown,
The outward leaves announce decay;
So, ere the spring of Youth is flown,
Its tiny pleasures die away;
The gay security we feel,
The careless soul's delighted rest,
That lively hope, that ardent zeal,
And smiling sunshine of the breast.
Those simple tints, so bright and clear,
No healing dew-drops can restore;
For joys, which early life endear,
Once blighted, can revive no more.
Yet lovely is the full-blown rose,
Although its infant graces fly;
The various opening leaves disclose,
A fairer banquet to the eye;
A ruby's beams on drifted snow,
Such pure, harmonious blushes shed;
If distant, cast a tender glow,
But near, its own imperial red;
The form assumes a prouder air,
And bends more graceful in the gale;
While, from its cup, of essence rare,
A richer hoard of sweets exhale.
Could we again, by fancy led,
That bower of swelling leaves confine,
And round that fine, luxuriant head,
The mossy tendrils now entwine,
Over what multitudes of bloom
Would a few timid leaflets close!
What mental joys resign their room,
To causeless mirth, and tame repose!
The change to Reason's steady eye,
Would neither good nor wise appear;
And we may lay one precept by,
Our discontent is insincere.