Yet these were to her fairer soul
  But, as yon op’ning clouds on high
To glorious worlds that o’er them roll,
  The portals to a brighter sky.

And shall the glutton worm defile
  This spotless tenement of love,
That like a playful infant’s smile
  Seem’d born of purest light above?

And yet I saw the sable pall
  Dark-trailing o’er the broken ground—­
The earth did on her coffin fall—­
  I heard the heavy, hollow sound

Avaunt, thou Fiend! nor tempt my brain
  With thoughts of madness brought from Hell! 
No wo like this of all her train
  Has Mem’ry in her blackest cell.

’Tis all a tale of fiendish art—­
  Thou com’st, my love, to prove it so! 
I’ll press thy hand upon my heart—­
  It chills me like a hand of snow!

Thine eyes are glaz’d, thy cheeks are pale,
  Thy lips are livid, and thy breath
Too truly tells the dreadful tale—–­
  Thou comest from the house of death!

Oh, speak, Beloved! lest I rave;
  The fatal truth I’ll bravely meet,
And I will follow to the grave,
  And wrap me in thy winding sheet.

First Love.

A Ballad[8].

Ah me! how hard the task to bear
  The weight of ills we know! 
But harder still to dry the tear,
  That mourns a nameless we.

If by the side of Lucy’s wheel
  I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
  My heart to beat within.

Or when on harvest holliday
  I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
  So sure she leads me wrong,

If I attempt the pipe to play,
  And catch my Lucy’s eye,
The trembling musick dies away,
  And melts into a sigh.

Where’er I go, where’er I turn,
  If Lucy there be found,
I seem to shiver, yet I burn,
  My head goes swimming round.

I cannot bear to see her smile,
  Unless she smile on me;
And if she frown, I sigh the while,
  But know not whence it be.

Ah, what have I to Lucy done
  To cause me so much stir? 
From rising to the setting sun
  I sigh, and think of her.

In vain I strive to join the throng
  In social mirth and ease;
Now lonely woods I stray among,
  For only woods can please.

Ah, me! this restless heart I fear
  Will never be at rest,
’Till Lucy cease to live, or tear
  Her image from my breast.

The Complaint.

“Oh, had I Colin’s winning ease,”
  Said Lindor with a sigh,
“So carelessly ordained to please,
  I’d every care defy.

“If Colin but for Daphne’s hair
  A simple garland weave,
He gives it with so sweet an air
  He seems a crown to give.

“But, though I cull the fairest flower
  That decks the breast of spring,
And posies from the woodland bower
  For Daphne’s bosom bring,