My pen I have laid down in sorrow,
The songs of my lute I forego:
From neither assistance I'll borrow
To utter my heart-seated wo!
But peace to her bosom, wherever
Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray:
Memento of mine again never
Will shadow the light of her way!
Fare The Well, Love.
Fare thee well, love!—We must sever!
Nor for years, love; but for ever!
We must meet no more—or only
Meet as strangers—sad and lonely.
Fare thee well!
Fare thee well, love!—How I languish
For the cause of all my anguish!
None have ever met and parted
So forlorn and broken-hearted.
Fare thee well!
Fare thee well, love—Till I perish
All my truth for thee I'll cherish;
And, when thou my requiem hearest,
Know till death I loved thee, dearest.
Fare thee well!
Thou Hast Woven the Spell.
Thou hast woven the spell that hath bound me,
Through all the sad changes of years;
And the smiles that I wore when I found thee,
Have faded and melted in tears!
Like the poor, wounded fawn from the mountain,
That seeks out the clear silver tide,
I have lingered in vain at the fountain
Of hope—with a shaft in my side!
Thou hast taught me that Love's rosy fetters
A pang from the thorns may impart;
That the coinage of vows and of letters
Comes not from the mint of the heart.
Like the lone bird that flutters her pinion,
And warbles in bondage her strain,
I have struggled to fly thy domain,
But find that the struggle is vain!
Bessy Bell.
When life looks drear and lonely, love,
And pleasant fancies flee,
Then will the Muses only, love,
Bestow a thought on me!
Mine is a harp which Pleasure, love,
To waken strives in vain;
To Joy's entrancing measure, love,
It ne'er can thrill again!—
Why mock me, Bessy Bell?