Shine on her sweetly-scented road, Thou star of evening's purple dome, That lead'st the nightingale abroad, And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath Where winnowed by the gentle air, And fall upon her brow so fair, Like shadows on the mountain snow. Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, In converse sweet, to wander far, O bring with thee my Caroline, And thou shalt be my Ruling Star. SONG. Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers, Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell; Life's joy for us a moment lingers, And death seems in the word-Farewell. The hour that bids us part and go, It sounds not yet, O no, no, no! Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, When thou art parted from my soul? Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, But not together, no, no, no! CHARLES LAMB. 1775-1834. THERE were two tragedies in the life of Charles Lamb, neither of which were known in his life-time, except to his dearest friends-the insanity of his sister, and his disappointment in love. We know all about the first, now that the actors have gone—we understand the shadow on his gentle spirit, now that the curtain has fallen-but the last has forever escaped us, melting away like a vapour, or the ghost of a dream at daybreak. We only know that he was in love, in 1795 or '6, and that he suppressed his love, like the brave good man that he was, for the sake of his unfortunate sister, who needed all his care. He affected to consider it a folly, when it was past, and went on his way as if it had never been. Why should he regret it? He had his desk at the India House by day, and at night a cosy fireside and his beloved books. He had Coleridge, whom he revered and loved, and many a night they spent together in the little smoky room at the Salutation and Cat, beguiling the cares of life with poetry. He had Mary too, so cheery and companionable, when she was well, so wretched when she was ill-when she felt her insanity coming on! No, he never regretted it! Dear Charles Lamb! many a man has been sainted ere now, for not a tythe of thy virtues. Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; Was it some sweet device of fairy That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, In those fine eyes? Methought they spake the while When last I roved these winding wood-walks green, No more I hear her footsteps in the shade: I passed the little cottage which she loved, It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I, And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. WILLIAM GIFFORD. 1756-1826. ["Baviad and Maviad." 1797.] THE GRAVE OF ANNA. I WISH I was where Anna lies, For I am sick of lingering here; And every hour affection cries, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she died, But who, when I am turned to clay, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there? And who with pious hand shall bring The flowers she cherished, snowdrops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell I did it; and would fate allow Should visit still, should still deplore; But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid, this simple strain, And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy spirits frolicsome as good, Thy courage by no ills dismayed, Thy patience by no wrongs subdued, Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye; Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu! |