SONG.
Tell him I love him yet,
As in that joyous time;
Tell him I ne’er forget,
Though memory now be crime;
Tell him, when sad moonlight
Is over earth and sea,
I dream of him by night,—
He must not dream of me!
Tell him to go where Fame
Looks proudly on the brave;
Tell him to win a name
By deeds on land and wave;
Green—green upon his brow
The laurel wreath shall be;
Although the laurel now
May not be shared with me.
Tell him to smile again
In Pleasure’s dazzling throng,
To wear another’s chain,
To praise another’s song.
Before the loveliest there
I’d have him bend his knee,
And breathe to her the prayer
He used to breathe to me.
And tell him, day by day,
Life looks to me more dim;
I falter when I pray,
Although I pray for him.
And bid him when I die,
Come to our favourite tree;
I shall not hear him sigh,—
Then let him sigh for me!
CONFESSIONS.
From the Manuscript of a Sexagenarian.
In youth, when pen and fingers first
Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek ’em,
Ere luring hope’s gay bubbles burst,
Or Chitty was my vade mecum,
Ere years had charactered my brow
With the deep lines, that well become it,
Or told me that warm hearts could grow
Cold as Mont Blanc’s snow-covered summit—
When my slow step and solemn swing
Were steadier and somewhat brisker,
When velvet collars were “the thing,”
And long before I wore a whisker,
Ere I had measured six foot two,
Or bought Havannas by the dozen,
I fell in love—as many do—
She was an angel—hem—my cousin.
Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance
Cast back on memory’s shorthand record,
I wonder—if by any chance
Life’s future page will be so checkered!
My angel cousin!—ah! her form—
Her lofty brow—her curls of raven,
Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,
Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.
Her lips with music eloquent
As her own grand upright piano;
No—never yet was Peri lent
To earth like thee, sweet Adriana.
I may not—dare not—call to mind
The joys that once my breast elated,
Though yet, methinks, the morning wind
Sweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted: