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Remember me—but, loveliest, ne'er,

When, in his orbit fair and high,
The morning's glowing charioteer

Rides proudly up the blushing sky;
But when the waning moonbeam sleeps

At moonlight on that lonely lea,
And nature's pensive spirit weeps

In all her dews, remember me.

Remember me, I pray—but not

In Flora's gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note,

And sunshine smiles in every flower;
But when the falling leaf is sear,

And withers sadly from the tree,
And o'er the ruins of the year

Cold Autumn weeps, remember me.

Remember me—but choose not, dear,

The hour when, on the gentle lake,
The sportive wavelets, blue and clear,

Soft rippling, to the margin break;
But when the deafʼning billows foam

In madness o'er the pathless sea,
Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam

Across them, and remember me.

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Remember me but not to join

If haply some thy friends should praise ; 'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine,

To echo what the stranger says.
They know us not—but shouldst thou nieet

Some faithful friend of me and thee,
Softly, sometimes, to him repeat
*My name, and then remember me.

Remember me-not, I entreat,

In scenes of festal week-day joy, For then it were not kind or meet,

Thy thought thy pleasure should alloy;
But on the sacred, solemn day,

And, dearest, on thy bended knee,
When thou for those thou lov'st dost pray,

Sweet spirit, then remember me.

Remember me—but not as I

On thee for ever, ever dwell,
With anxious heart and drooping eye,

And doubts 'twould grieve thee should I tell;
But in thy calm, unclouded heart,

Where dark and gloomy visions flee, Oh there, my sister, be my part,

And kindly there remember me.




BEAUTY has gone, but yet her mind is still
As beautiful as ever; still the play
Of light around her lips has every

Of childhood in its freshness: Love has there
Stamped his unfading impress, and the hues
Of fancy shine around her, as the sun
Gilds at his setting some decaying tower,
With feathered moss and ivy overgrown.
I knew her in the dawning of her charms.
When the new rose first opened, and its sweets
No wind had wasted. She was of those forms
Appelles might have painted for the Queen
Of loveliness and love-light as the fays
Dancing on glimmering dew-drops, when the moon
Rides in her silver softness, and the world
Is calm and brightly beautiful below.
She was all mildness, and the melting tone



Of her sweet voice thrilled me and seemed to flow
Into my soul, a stream of melody,
Delicious in its mellowness; it spake
A heart at ease—and then the quiet smile
Sat playing on her lips, that, pouting, spread
Their vermil freshness forth, as if to ask
The kiss of him she smiled on. In her eye
Gentleness had its dwelling, and light Mirth
Glanced out in sudden flashes, and keen Wit
Shot arrows which delighted, while they stung.
She was a young Medusa, ere she knew
The evil of a world that watched to blast
Her loveliness, and make it terrible ;
Striking a dead cold horror on the heart
Of him who saw the fairest of all things,
A lovely woman, made the common prey
Of lawless passion—but it touched not HER:
No mist breathed o'er her brightness; but the pure
Full light of virtue rested there, and shed
New lustre on the light that ever came
Through her transparent features, and revealed.
Each movement of the soul that swelled within :
And they were all of Heaven-such high desires
As angels had been proud of-pure as light
In its primeval fountain, ere it flowed
To mingle with the elements, and lose
Its perfect clearness. She was as a flower



New opened in a valley, where no foot
Had trodden, and no living thing had left
Print of the world's pollution: there she blew
Fragrant and lovely, and a parent's hand
Shielded her from the winds that blast, or bring
Poison upon their wings, and taint the heart
Left open to their influence. Shielded there,
She ripened all her treasures, and became
Full-blown and rich in her maturity-
Che dwelling of a spirit, not of earth,
But ever mingling with the pure and high
Conceptions of a soul that spreads its wings
To fly where Mind, when boldest, dared to soar.
And though the form has withered, and the bloom
Has faded, she is lovely; for the sounds
"That issue from her lips, and flow around
In liquid eloquence, are oracles
Of more than ancient wisdom, or they speak
Portions of that full hymn of Poesy,
Which ever rises when a mind on fire
Blends with the majesty of outward things;
And with the glories of a boundless Heaven,
And a rich earth, and ever-rolling sea
Communing, swells to that ineffable
Fruition, which in hope will never end.

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