XI.
TO THE SAME.
Go forth, my voice, through the wild air,
In the lone stillness of the night,
Beneath the cold moon's pale blue light;
Seek Eugenia, and declare,
As warmth and promise lurk below
A waste of lifeless, drifted snow;
So, while my lips inertly move,
While many heavy fetters bind,
And press upon my languid mind,
Oh! tell her not to doubt my love!
Affection still her hold shall keep,
Although her weary servants sleep.
Friendship to me is like a flower,
Yielding a balm for human woe,
I less than ever could forego;
More prized, more needed every hour!
Perchance it dies for want of care,
But as it withers, I despair!
XII.
_To the late Lady Rouse Boughton_.
'Tis said, that jealous of a name
We all would praise confine,
And choke the leading path to fame
In our peculiar line.
But vainly should detraction preach
If once I made it known,
The art of pleasing thou would'st teach
Acknowledg'd for thy own.
XIII.
Yes! I can suffer, sink with pain,
With anguish I can ill sustain;
Till not a hope has strength to spring,
Till scarce a prayer can lift its wing;
Yet in my inmost heart there lies
A living fount that will arise,
And, of itself, diffuse a balm,
A healing and refreshing calm,
A pure delight, a cooling glow,
Which Hate and Meanness cannot know!
Yes! I can faint, and I can fear,
The power of petty creatures here,
Who trick dark deeds in gay disguise,
And weave their web of brooded lies,
With so few threads made smooth and fair,
All seems plain sense and reason there;
And yet I would not learn their art,
Nor have their paltry spells by heart,
Their rankling blood within my veins,
For all the treasure earth contains!
Oft, panic-struck, I sink, dismay'd,
Call, with expiring faith, for aid;
When all my efforts useless seem,
Emptied of force as in a dream,
My courage knows to persevere,
Entwin'd, o'ergrown, o'ertowered by fear!
As he who summoned in the night,
At sudden wreck, in wild affright,
Once throws his arms around a mast,
Continues still to hold it fast,
When sight and strength and aim are flown,
When cold, benumb'd, and senseless grown,
My soul, by hurrying tempests driven,
Though blinded from the light of Heaven,
Clinging, all hope, all comfort o'er,
Must yet awaken on the shore!
XIV.
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