LETTERS OF THE LOVERS.

LETTERS OF THE LOVERS .

I. TO ANNA . THOU canst not fly me , dearest maid ! I haunt thee with the Evening's shade ; I see with thee " her golden glow Fall on the silver lake below , " — The trees that paint them in the stream Another earth and sky to seem , — The self-same shades that tinge thy sky Make the full circle of my eye . When Night her mantle casts around , With golden stars the border's bound ; Or when her crescent crowns her brow , And glitters all the woodland through With quivering beam , that oft deceives , While spreading foil on spangl'd leaves ; Till some dark cloud comes sailing by And drinks the lustre of the sky , — Pours from her horn the watery store , And leaves and flowers are bright no more : When Morn stands tiptoe on yon hill , And then first prints the cottage sill And views her , blushing to be seen , As if from bathing she had been ; Her golden locks yet scarcely dry , And the dropp'd dew half in her eye ; Her sandals wet as wet can be , Her robe still dripping from the sea , Her car just waiting for her hand To drive the coursers over land , And , for the heats of sultry day , To chase the sullen clouds away , — Ah ! thinkst thou not I see thee still , And ever did and ever will ? Can absence tear thee from my sight ? My eyes' full joy — my soul's delight ! No ; — in the soft and silken bower Where slumber binds the drowsy hour , And sweetest dreams in visions sends To be the wretch's fancied friends , Think'st thou that any form but thine Can meet this ardent gaze of mine ? Or , when the blissful vision's o'er , And I must grasp thy shade no more , — When sorrowing drops my eyelids stain , And wake me to my woes again ; Think'st thou fond memory will not bear Thy image through the drowning tear ? The mind's eye then shall take the place , And wander o'er thy much lov'd face , — See every look and every thought That feeling or that fancy wrought . E'en now I see that starting tear ; Where lurks the anguish? tell me where ? Ah ! my soul trembles while I see That tear , alas ! not dropp'd for me . For me ! ah , no ; she knows I mourn , Yet gives no sorrow in return ; — Has seen unmov'd my struggling sighs Send a full deluge from my eyes , — Nay , bade me , while the torrent fell , A long , a sad , a last farewell ! All this I know ; yet still that tear Sheds a slow languid poison here ; The heart's full tubes are running o'er , And the weak veins can hold no more . No more ! ah , would it were but so , And death might end the pangs of woe ; For what are his to those I've here , Whilst I but think I see that tear ! THE MOURNER

II . TO THE MOURNER . THOU dost not know me , gentle friend ; Would I could make thy sorrows end ! Light as the breeze of early dawn , When from Aurora newly blown , As full of life thy heart should be , Nor drop one dew-tear more for me . Have I not known the pangs thou'st felt ; Knelt at the shrine where thou hast knelt ; With seeming smiles have bound my brow To keep the anguish down below ; Nor suffer'd once the cloudy eye To hold acquaintance with a sigh ? Your sex such griefs may frankly own , But ours , alas ! are ours alone ; The stricken deer the herd must fly , Seek the lone shade and silent die ! I will not say I doubt thy flame , For ah ! I know I've felt the same , The tender hopes and fears that dwell In every breast that loves so well ; The warm solicitudes that keep Their tyrant watch o'er banish'd sleep ; The pining thought that steals from home With one lov'd object still to roam ; Despair that drinks the liquid tear , The heart benumb'd by every fear ; Hope banish'd from the bosom's throne , And the blank wishes left alone : 'Twas these that made me bid thee fly To other scenes , to other sky . Too well I know th' enchanting power That lurks within the smallest flower ; If a lov'd eye its robes have seen , Its coif of gold , and train of green ; A fancied charm fast binds the heart , And with the flower we cannot part ; — " 'Twas Anna's eye that dropp'd on thee , Welcome then little friend to me ! 'Twas here she prais'd thy soften'd hue , 'Twas there she sipp'd thy silver dew ; On this leaf bade me cast my eye ; On that she breath'd a tender sigh , Which gave thy perfume to the air , By far the sweetest incense there . " 'Twas thus on scenes I lov'd so well My fancy would for ever dwell , Or know one moment's sweet repose From the sad pangs of endless woes ; For memory walk'd the groves around , I heard her voice in every sound , That bade me in soft whispers see Beside the brook — beneath the tree — The object dear — so long deplor'd — " Him whom I call'd my bosom's lord ! " You say I cannot fly you — no ; That I believe ! for sure I know , That Absence cannot guard the cell Where wayward thoughts are doom'd to dwell ; Out from the bosom they will break , And former joys for ever seek ; For ever tell the passing hour 'Tis not like that that's gone before ! Yet some remission may be found , While treading o'er unhallow'd ground Where Anna's form has never been , But , like the vapour of a dream , Painted alone for memory's eye , In colours that were wont to fly . But , trust me , if in groves among Where thou hast heard her voice , her song ; If thou hast mark'd her watch the cloud , While the hoarse brook kept speaking loud ; Or seen her pensive musing stand , The wild flowers dropping from her hand ; Or wreathe the woodbine round the tree , — Trust me , it is no place for thee . Such scenes would ever hold her there , And thou would'st meet her every where ; Nor e'er could Time around thy woe His soften'd veil of sorrow throw , Such as when Evening dews arise And seem thin gauze before the eyes ; All objects then , but dimly seen , Look dimly through th' enammell'd screen ; But yet the landscape charms the sight , And gives the eye a meek delight . ANNA .

III . TO ANNA . THOU bidst me fly thee , and once more I wander to a foreign shore ; A world half new before me lies , " Another earth , and other skies ; " But ah , alas ! e'en now I find I cannot leave myself behind ; Nor bar the avenue of thought , Nor drink one sweet oblivious draught , E'en though from Lethe I should lave The pure translucent silver wave . Champagnia's sprightly juice I try , And feel the spirits mantling high ; E'en then I see the vision rise That ever swims before my eyes . What if I snatch the tuneful lyre , And rush my fingers 'cross the wire , The gales too catch the mournful song , Wafting the sweetest notes along ; Till Echo , sitting in her cell , Resounds the notes she loves so well , And , as I warble forth my woes , " Lends her soft voice at every close ; " Such sympathy can never move The settl'd pain of constant love . To Echo yet my griefs I pour At evening knell , or midnight hour ; For she , like me , has sorrow known , And almost pin'd herself to stone ; Yet with an ear so quickly found , — So sensible of every sound , That not a sigh can swell the air But what she slowly lengthens there ; Then , when her sympathy I've tried , Her soothing voice in vain applied , I throw away the useless lyre , And other scenes and views require : I fly to mountains wild and drear , Where summer comes not all the year ; There Nature in full pomp behold , Her silver snows , her rocks of gold . For this the hardy Swiss I tend , With him the frozen world descend , And see the laughing valley spread Of silken flowers a velvet bed ; See , too , the hamlets smiling round , Of man now hear the cheerful sound ; Now mark the cot , with cheerful fire , Amidst yon clump of elms retire ; It glads the heart-glow of my guide , And mends the measure of his stride : We near ; his Sylvio runs before , His children meet him at the door , His modest dame with welcome air Draws forth with haste the elbow chair , And seats him in the warmest nook , With heartfelt gladness in her look , Think'st thou , when such a scene I see , My thoughts will not revert to thee ? To thee ! — that night ! — but ah ! 'tis o'er ; Th' unwelcome theme I'll urge no more ; No more , since thou hast sorrow felt , And " bent the knee where I have knelt . " Italia's gales now bear my song " In soft-link'd notes her woods among ; " There mouldering columns silent stand , Bound up by many an osier band , While arms of oak , enfolding all , Keep the huge fragment from its fall : I mark alike weak Tiber's flow , And see his thirsty channel low ; I see , where temples used to stand , One scatter'd ruin o'er the land ; Yet see the statues breathing still , That once might live , as sure they will ; There sister Painting , too , I hear , Almost gives whispers to my ear ; While Melody , surviving all , Lets her sweet cadence ever fall , And every voice in tuneful lay , Bears the soft harmony away . There love's soft blandishments entwine Round every human heart but mine ; What though Italia's nymphs I find More charming than half womankind ; Yet , as they are not like to thee , Italia's nymphs are nought to me ! On Virgil's tomb I'll hang my lyre , There shall the rust consume the wire ; Sigh to the winds in low return , And o'er his sacred ashes mourn , While one weak string is left to bear The plaintive murmur through the air ; Nor poesy again be chose The vehicle of bosom-woes . Vain , vain's the skill , the trial's o'er , And Italy shall charm no more ; No more shall France , in spirits wild , Dress up the humours of her child ; Home I return to breathe with thee The better air of Liberty ; To breathe near thee must have some power O'er the dark demons of the hour ! Fear not , my Anna , I shall tell How long I've lov'd , and ah ! how well ; To this one wish my soul shall bend — " To be alone thy bosom-friend ! " THE MOURNER .