Not the sharp torture of the critic's pen,
The curse of genius in our days, tho' scorn'd,
Nor full fore-knowledge of the ban which men
Would set upon thee, Lady, have suborn'd
Thee from the simple truth; nor that gay crown
Of dry gilt leaves and roses overblown,
Which intellectual cliques delight to give
To wits and scribes of drawing-room renown,
And they, debased, on bended knees receive,
Weighs 'gainst the awful claims of that which you believe.

What you assert the critics will deny,
What you deplore pronounce eternal law,

I WOULD not have you mourn too much,
When I am lying low,—
Your grief would grieve me even then,
Should your tears flow.

But only plant above my grave
One little sprig of rue;
Then find yourself a fairer love,
But not more true.

The summer winds will come and go
Above me as I lie;
And if I think at all, my dear,
As they pass by,

I shall remember the old love,
With all its bliss and bane,—
Though Life nor Death can bring me back
The old, sweet pain.

Mute is thy wild harp, now, O Bard sublime!
Who, amid Scotia's mountain solitude,
Great Nature taught to “build the lofty rhyme,”
And even beneath the daily pressure, rude,
Of labouring Poverty, thy generous blood,
Fired with the love of freedom[.]—Not subdued
Wert thou by thy low fortune: But a time
Like this we live in, when the abject chime
Of echoing Parasite is best approved,
Was not for thee [.]—Indignantly is fled
Thy noble Spirit; and no longer moved
By all the ills o'er which thine heart has bled,

If high excess of unrelenting smart
Enforce not words to fail and thoughts to faint;
My love would now convince both tongue and heart
To say farewell unto my sweetest saint.
But while affection would my woes reveal,
And say unto my dearest heart farewell,
My senses are so suffocate with care,
They sigh, they groan, then say nothing but “fair.”

Then fairest fair, read in my sighs and tears
The secret anguish of thy dying slave,
Who, for the love unto thy worth he bears,
Hath consecrate his soul unto the grave;

Flowers are for the earth
And children for the sky.
When once they've gone to look on God,
They love it best on high.
Then let the bells ring out and say:
“One angel more in heaven to-day.”

How much soever in this life's mutations
We seek our shattered idols to replace,
Not one, in all the myriads of the nations,
Can ever fill another's vacant place.

Each has his own, the smallest and most humble,
As well as he revered the wide world through;
At every death some loves and hopes must crumble,
Which never strive to build themselves anew.

If the fair race of violets should perish
Before another spring-time has its birth,
Could all the costly blooms which florists cherish
Bring back its April beauty to the earth?

Not farther than a fledgling's weak first flight,
In a low dell, standeth an antique grove;
Dusky it is by day, but when 'tis night,
None may tread safely there, unlit by Love.
In lonelier days, it was my mood to rove
At all hours there—to hear what mirth I might
Of the passionate Lark, the brooding Dove,
And the strong Thrush—all breathers of delight.
When Night's drawn curtains darkened the deep vale,
And the rich music of the day was ended,
Out gushed a sudden song of saddest wail,
Breaking the silence it with sweetness mended:—

For th' Heaven-gifted still an earthly Gift have I!
Some kingly robe, belike? Some jewel priceless-fair?
A Gift no King's or Croesus' yellow heaps could buy:
True love from Woman's heart, this tress of Woman's hair!

I have a friend; I have a story;
I have a life that's hard to live;
I love; my love is all my glory;
I have been hurt and I forgive.

I have a friend; none could be better;
I stake my heart upon my friend!
I love; I trust her to the letter;
Will she deceive me in the end?

She is my love, my life, my jewel;
My hope, my star, my dear delight.
God! but the ways of God are cruel,—
That love should bow the knee to spite!

She loves, she hates,—a foul alliance!
One King shall rule in one estate.

In vain!—The punishment that I must bear,
The bitter price that I must always pay
Is that I cannot wash the stain away
Which I have made upon a love so fair.
I sometimes think, that, dark though the despair,
Which binds your being in relentless sway,
It does not your sad heart more fiercely slay
Than the remorse in mine beyond compare—
To give, and have the fulness of return,
To love as few have loved, and then to mar
That spotless love by a belittling scar
Which must a soul beloved forever burn.
What anguish can be greater than to know