LXXXII.
There are, who count the day by Phœbus’ course,
And ask the dial, where the sun should be;
Who teach the clock, to give the hours force,
To speak the change of their monotony;
Who span the earth with measures, and with rules,
And prate of chart, of compass, and of mile;
Others, more learned, beckon to the schools,
Whence time and space flee with mysterious smile:
But we, who count by love, care not to point
Our sweet decisions by such knotty laws;
Whether one be right, or, all be partners joint
In folly’s mandates, or in wisdom’s saws,
Love cares not, knows not, reckons not; its ways
Seem shorter to its joy, than winter days.
LXXXIII.
’Twas here, we met, we spoke; ’twas but a moment,
So short the hours seemed; we loved, we parted;
Ah! that harsh word of parting, with such woe shent,
Dulls all the joy that e’er our meeting darted;
Those leagues we linger’d o’er, what steps they seem’d!
How could we give to distance his full dues?
How short those days, when tricksome fancy’s dream’d,
And dress’d the present in rich memory’s hues!
This is Eternity, shorn of the dress
That sedate Time winds round his glowing limbs:
Soon shall the Eternal rise, and find redress
From slanderous Time, who sickens what he dims.
Time rules but mortals, wavers even for men;
Should Truth inhabit such a meteor’s den?
LXXXIV.
Unsatisfied desires have sway’d my breast;
Hope’s Syren voice has lured me to despair;
Only Excitement’s charm’d me, with its zest,
And strangled thought, e’er it could change to care;
But, now, such deep repose hath breathed content,
Filling the measure of all hopes with thee;
That, all my longings and my fears are spent,
Or only live, that thou may’st bid them flee:
If, now, Ambition points to ceaseless toil;
Gleam through the years, altars of sacrifice;
When all is done, I but remain the foil,
Marking what measure thou may’st well despise.
All that I have, or gain, or love, is thine,
And all is little, since thy heart is mine.