I have tried to cease this pining,

Rouse my withering pride,—but vain, By some skilful, deep designing, Turn my love to cold disdain;

But such efforts make thee dearer

To her whom love's spell hath bound, Draw the fatal chord still nearer

Round the heart thy falsehoods wound.

THE LOVERS.

THEY met, and looked into each other's eyes;
In hers, as in a mirror clear, he saw
A paradise, and she in his beheld

A bright and sunny world, where her pure soul
Could only light, and life, and joyance find;
But th' serpent came between them; then,
Like thunder-riven rocks, apart they dwelt,

Silent, and cold, and withering, until

Their hearts were dead, and they went to the grave, Their misery to each other unrevealed.

TO ERNEST.

YES, they have said the fatal word
That bids us tread this earth apart,

Crushed every hope that life endeared,
But have not struck thee from my heart.

They bid me on another smile,

They bid me breathe another's name, But oh! they know not that the while 'Tis fuel added to the flame.

To thee I'll ever constant prove,
All sorrows suffer for thy sake-
The tie that binds our hearts in love
Is not for mortal hands to break.

For ever they may part us here,
Between us place the boundless sea,

It will but render thee more dear

They cannot tear my heart from thee!

With roses they may wreathe my brow,
And lead me to the holy shrine,
And wring from me the nuptial vow,
Believe my heart I there resign:

But when a few brief days are past,
And they to greet me hither come,
And find my brow with grief o'ercast,
And shadows dwelling in my home-

Ah! then they'll watch my silent woe,
My waning cheek, and wasting form,
And glittering pomp around me throw,
But find it hath for me no charm;

And speak kind words-but speak in vain, And try with smiles, and mirth, and song

To bring back cheerfulness again,

And mitigate their cruel wrong.

But hot tears stealing from mine eye,
The hectic deep'ning on my check,
The mournful moan, and stifled sigh,
Their fatal work too late will speak.

TO ERNEST.

I KNOW it is a vain wild dream, The love for thee I've cherished; I would, as die the tender leaves, That it with hope had perished;

But oh! love dieth not with hope,
It lights her funeral pyre,
That smoulders in the ruined heart,
A slow consuming fire.

I do not ask thee e'er to take
This stricken heart of mine;

I only tell thee of its flame,
And that it all is thine :

I do not ask thee to forego

The charms that I have not, Proud wealth, and beauty's witchery, To share my lonely lot.