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XII.

Look at the fate of summer Flowers,

Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song;
And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours,
Measured by what we are and ought to be,

Measured by all that trembling we foresee,
Is not so long!

If human Life do pass away,

Perishing yet more swiftly than the Flower,

Whose frail existence is but of a day;

What space hath Virgin's Beauty to disclose

Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing Rose? Not even an hour!

The deepest grove whose foliage hid
The happiest Lovers Arcady might boast,
Could not the entrance of this thought forbid:
O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid!
Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade,
So soon be lost.

Then shall Love teach some virtuous Youth "To draw out of the Object of his eyes,"

The whilst on Thee they gaze in simple truth, Hues more exalted, a refined Form,"

That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm, And never dies.

XIII.

'Tis said, that some have died for love:

And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold North's unhallowed ground,

Because the wretched Man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.

And thus he makes his moan:

Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made;

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Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,

That in some other way yon smoke

May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart :

I look the sky is empty space;

I know not what I trace;

But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

“O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be supprest!

Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,

It robs my heart of rest.

Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,

Into yon row of willows flit,

Upon that alder sit;

Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

"Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain bounds,

And there for ever be thy waters chained!

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds

That cannot be sustained;

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,

Oh let it then be dumb!—

Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

"Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers,

(Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,

And stir not in the gale.

For thus to see thee nodding in the air,

To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,

Thus rise and thus descend,

Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up
kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.