Those eyes of hers, that floating shine,
Like diamonds in some eastern river;
That kiss, for which, if worlds were mine,
A world for every kiss I'd give her.
That frame so delicate, yet warmed
With flushes of love's genial hue;
A mould transparent, as if formed
To let the spirit's light shine through.
Of these I sung, and notes and words
Were sweet, as if the very air
From Lamia's lip hung o'er the chords,
And Lamia's voice still warbled there!
But when, alas, I turned the theme,
And when of vows and oaths I spoke,
Of truth and hope's seducing dream—
The chord beneath my finger broke.
False harp! false woman! such, oh, such
Are lutes too frail and hearts too willing;
Any hand, whate'er its touch,
Can set their chords or pulses thrilling.
And when that thrill is most awake,
And when you think Heaven's joys await you,
The nymph will change, the chord will break—
Oh Love, oh Music, how I hate you!
TO JULIA.
I saw the peasant's hand unkind
From yonder oak the ivy sever;
They seemed in very being twined;
Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!
Not so the widowed ivy shines:
Torn from its dear and only stay,
In drooping widowhood it pines,
And scatters all its bloom away.
Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,
Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:
Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,
While mine, deserted, droops and dies!