I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore;
It would have been a beauteous dream,
—­If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Musics wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you’ve loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before,—­
Alas, for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore! 
The smile that blest one lover’s heart
Has broken many more!

TO A FALSE FRIEND.

Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again. 
Friends, if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain: 
I only know I loved you once,
I only know I loved in vain;
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again!

Then farewell to heart and hand! 
I would our hands had never met: 
Even the outward form of love
Must be resign’d with some regret. 
Friends, we still might seem to be,
If I my wrong could e’er forget;
Our hands have join’d but not our hearts: 
I would our hands had never met!

ODE.

AUTUMN.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
    Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?—­With the sun,
Opening the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. 
Where are the merry birds?—­Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
        Lest owls should prey
        Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?—­In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. 
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs
        To a most gloomy breast. 
Where is the pride of Summer,—­the green prime,—­
The many, many leaves all twinkling?—­Three
On the moss’d elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,—­and one upon the old oak tree! 
  Where is the Dryad’s immortality?—­
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
    In the smooth holly’s green eternity.