Those eyes perceive, as slow the clouds divide,
One star, whose tremulous but brilliant ray
Might serve the uncertain wand'rer's steps to guide,
And cheer his bosom till the dawn of day;
Who trembling else, and lost in black dismay,
Wearied and wild, might rove and perish on the way.
Even such a star, so fair and so benign,
When o'er the soul dark clouds of sorrow lour,
Is Hope; whose tranquil rays serenely shine,
Brightening the horrors of each dreary hour;
Smiling when youth prepares the fancied flower,
And when in age it feels misfortune's blighting power.
Oh, thou bright star! still grateful shalt thou find
The heart so often cheer'd by thy mild ray:
I will not call thee faithless and unkind,
Nor with ingratitude thy smiles repay,
Because thou hast not, like the glorious day,
Power to dispel the dark, and drive the clouds away.
Gild but those clouds till brighter suns arise;
Checkering with thy fair light life's troubled stream;
And oft unwearied shall these wakeful eyes,
Watching the progress of thy doubtful beam,
Shine even in tears; and, closing, still shall seem
Sooth'd by thy gentle ray in every peaceful dream.
EPISTLE TO LADY DELAMORE,
ON RETURNING TO ROSE-HILL.
From those rain scenes, where fancied pleasure reigns;
From crowds that weary, and from mirth which pains;
From flattering praises, from the smiles of art,
Sweet to the eye but faithless to the heart;
From guilt which makes fair innocence its prey,
Sighs but to blast, and courts but to betray;
From these I fly, impatient to caress
All lovely Nature in her fairest dress.
Oh, sweet retirement! Oh! secure retreat
From all the cares and follies of the great!
Here lavish Nature every charm bestows,
In softness smiles, in vivid beauty glows!
Here May presents each blossom of the spring,
And balmy sweetness falls from Zephyr's wing.
Yet while I stray, in tranquil quiet blest,
Fond mem'ry presses at my anxious breast;
And as I rove 'mid scenes so justly dear,
Remembrance wakes the tributary fear!
The mental eye perceives a sister's form,
And even these peaceful shades no longer charm.
"Yes!" I exclaim, "'twas here she lov'd to stray,
Smiling in beauty, innocently gay!
Oft by yon streamlet, in the echoing vale,
Her voice would swell upon the evening gale,
Charm from the care-fraught bosom half its woes,
And hush the wounded spirit to repose!"
While these delightful hours I thus retrace,
And dwell on every recollected grace,
Thy sister's soul, my Agatha, forgets
That thou art blest in that which she regrets;
Forgets that pleasure crowns thy happy hours,
And fond affection strews thy path with flowers;
Anxious thy way with rose-buds to adorn,
And from those buds remove each lurking thorn.
Ah! selfish heart, lament thy loss no more,
Nor thus thy recollected bliss deplore;
Content thyself to know thy sister blest,
And calm the plaintive anguish of thy breast!
Be still serenity thy future state;
Far from the pomps and perils of the great;
Unnotic'd, quiet, shall thy peace ensure,
Peace, when the world forgets thee, most secure.
—Yet, yet, my Agatha, affection swells
The trembling heart where thy lov'd image dwells;
Still bids me look to thee for all that cheers
In lengthen'd life, and blesses ling'ring years:
My spirit, form'd a social bliss to prove,
Dares but to hope it from thy future love.
Deceived by him on whom it most relied,
Pierced in its fondness, wounded in its pride—
Yet, yet, while throbbing through each shatter'd nerve,
Disclaims to thee the veil of low reserve;
Owns all its weakness, will each thought confide,
And what it dares to feel, disdains to hide;
Owns, though no more the storms of passion rise,
That from the thought of selfish bliss it flies,
Still feels whate'er had once the power to charm,
Faithful affection, sensitive alarm;
But from the pangs which once it felt relieved,
No more will trust where once it was deceived;
To thee alone will look for future joy,
And for thy bliss each anxious wish employ:
Absorbed in thee, and in thy opening views,
Its pains, its pleasures, nay its being lose:
One we will be, and one our future cares,
Our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes, and our prayers.
LAURA.
With both these little pieces Ellen was perhaps more pleased than their intrinsic merit warranted; but we naturally look with a partial eye on the performances of those we love. After looking over several other poetical attempts, and some beautiful drawings, they returned to Juliet's apartment, where they spent a delightful evening; for Juliet seemed materially mending, and Laura's spirits rose in proportion.
Thus, and in similar pleasures, passed the time till the beginning of March, varied indeed by the occasional visits of the neighbouring families. One day, after a long solicitation, the St. Aubyns, Cecils, and some more of the most fashionable people near them, dined with Mrs. Dawkins, where they also met her tender friend and shadow, Miss Alton, who this day, for the first time in her life, was destined to offend that sweet woman, Mrs. Dawkins; for charmed to find herself seated on a sofa between "her dearest Lady St. Aubyn," and that most delightful man, General Morton, a veteran officer in the neighbourhood, at whom it was supposed Miss Alton had long set her cap, as the phrase is, she attended not to the hints, shrugs, and winks of her friend, who, not keeping a regular housekeeper, and being extremely anxious for the placing her first course properly, wished Miss Alton just to slip out and see it put on table: but vain were her wishes; and the cook, finding no aid-de-camp arrive, after waiting till some of the dishes were over-dressed, and others half cold, was obliged to act as commander-in-chief, and direct the disposition of the table herself; in which, not having clearly understood her mistress's directions (for in fact her anxiety to have all correct made them vary every half hour), she succeeded so ill, that when, after all her fretting and fuming, poor Mrs. Dawkins was told dinner was on table, that unfortunate Lady had nearly fainted at perceiving, when she entered the dining-room, that half the articles intended for the second course were crowded into the first, and roasted, ragoued, boiled, fried, sweet and sour, were jumbled together, in the finest confusion imaginable!