1.
In one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fann’d
the flame;
But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.
2.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their blaze in night.
3.
Thus has it been with Passion’s
fires—
As many a boy and girl remembers—
While every hope of love expires,
Extinguish’d with the dying embers.
4.
The first, though not a spark survive,
Some careful hand may teach
to burn;
The last, alas! can ne’er
survive;
No touch can bid its warmth
return.
5.
Or, if it chance to wake again,
Not always doom’d its
heat to smother,
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
Its former warmth around another.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: Of Miss A. H. (MS. Newstead).]
FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. [i.]
1.
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through
Infancy’s days,
Young offspring of Fancy,
’tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of
my lays,
The coldest effusion which
springs from my heart.
2.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes,
nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught
thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on
Apathy’s wing.
3.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing
Lyre,
Yet even these themes are
departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could
inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,—alas,
never!
4.
When drain’d is the nectar which
gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight
to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in
my soul, [ii]
What magic of Fancy can lengthen
my song?
5.
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert
alone,
Of kisses and smiles which
they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that
are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can
no longer be mine.
6.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived
but to love? [iii]
Ah, surely Affection ennobles
the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to
behold them again?
7.
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers
have done,
And raise my loud harp to
the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint
is my tone!
For Heroes’ exploits
how unequal my fires!
8.
Untouch’d, then, my Lyre shall reply
to the blast—
’Tis hush’d; and
my feeble endeavours are o’er;
And those who have heard it will pardon
the past,
When they know that its murmurs
shall vibrate no more.
9.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be
forgot,
Since early affection and
love is o’ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy
my lot,
Had the first strain of love
been the dearest, the last.
10.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now
can ne’er meet; [iv]
If our songs have been languid,
they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least
will be sweet—
The present—which
seals our eternal Adieu.
1807. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1:
‘Adieu to the Muse’.
[’MS. Newstead’.]]
[Footnote ii:
‘When cold is the form’.
[’MS. Newstead’.]]
[Footnote iii:
—’whom I lived but to love’.
[’MS. Newstead’.]]
[Footnote iv:
‘Since we never can meet’.
[’MS. Newstead’.]]
