By the transports of the lyre,
Bursting forth in hallow’d fire—
By thy tongue’s celestial lay,
Melting all the soul away—10
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?
By the passion-breathing sigh,
When youthful rapture rises high—
By the drop of glist’ning dew,
In thine eye of violet blue—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?
By thy bosom’s heaving snow—
By thine orb’s averted glow—20
By this lovely hand of thine,
Trembling, thrilling, now in mine—
By the heart’s first hope, first fear,
Tell me!—dost thou love me, dear?
FAREWELL TO LYRA.
Written at Fifteen.
Farewell, oh farewell! though distance may sever
The persons of lovers, their hearts it can never;
And mine will still, Lyra, be tending on thee,
As the bird of the night on his own fragrant tree[18].
Can I think of the tear in thine orbit of blue,
When I falt’ringly murmur’d, “My Lyra, adieu!”—
Can I think of that hand, as it trembled in mine,
How pensive, yet sweet, was its exquisite thrill;
While my pulse woke the motion of transport in thine,9
Like the balm of the gale on the breast of the rill.
Can I think of the gift, when thou sigh’d, “we must part,”
That thou cast o’er my bosom to lie on my heart;
And as my keen anguish, thou sawest the while,
Thou strove to look up with a soul-soothing smile;
But when there, thou caught the wild glancing of pain,
Thou burst into tears (oh, how heartfelt!) again:—
Can I think of that scene, which remembrance will show,
As the sweetest, yet bitt’rest, it ever can know—
Can I think of that scene, and, oh! e’er can I be,
E’en in thought, for a moment unfaithful to thee?20
And now, as thy gift to my bosom I’m pressing,
Oh! dost thou not think, my belov’d, it will glow,
Like the mariner’s star—like the pilgrim’s last blessing,
To guide and to cheer through this desert of wo.
And if ever my country should call to the field
Of Honour’s thick slaughter, and Death’s scenes of gore,
Oh, dost thou not think that my head it will shield,
As the magical charms of the wizards of yore.
As it rests on my heart, I shall think that thine eye
Nerves mine arm, and enkindles the flame of my soul,
It will soften that heart to the conquer’d’s weak cry—
It will blend with its courage, soft Mercy’s control.
Or should Fate ever guide, in the patriot’s high cause,
To the senate of wisdom, oh, think’st thou this token
Will not cull to thy lover his country’s applause—
Will not keep the firm ties of the patriot unbroken?
And if e’er, for a moment, his bosom should swerve
From the dictates of Honour, he’s sworn to observe,
As he feels thy lov’d gift on his bosom recline,39
Will not all there again straight be Virtue’s and thine?
Yes, my Lyra, while life in thy lover can dwell—
While remembrance can give that endearing farewell,
He will carry this gift through life’s thorn-sprouting maze;
’Twill sublimate rapture—’twill soften despair—
’Twill lead him from grief, to those bliss-beaming days,
When each step was on roses,—for Lyra was there!
Yet, ah, can my lips e’er those hated words tell,
“For ever, my Lyra, for ever farewell!”
It cannot be ever!—or else with the thought,
(With feelings, with throes of such agony fraught,)50
This heart would be burst in its innermost core;—
Could it beat, and each throb of its beating not be
Thine only!—Oh, no, every pulse must be o’er,
Ere it once is forgetful of love and of thee.
If on earth our fond hopings of passion are riv’n,
Yet yonder, oh, gaze!—(where so often before
We have pour’d our full sighs) on yon balm-breathing heav’n,
There bliss will receive us—there grief be no more;
Love will pour round our heads his bright halo divine,
Sublim’d to a loftier, mellower glow,60
All celestial, all warm, like the Magi’s pure shrine,
Such as Seraphs can feel—such as heav’n can bestow.