TO EMMA.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;

Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But pride may teach me to forget thee.

BYRON.

I wish, alas! I could regain
The hours I lov'd to waste,
When, at your feet, I pray'd in vain
For bliss I might not taste.

When, scornfully, you bade me hide
The all I felt for you,

And gave that cutting look of pride
Which never was my due.

You little deem'd what I endur'd,
And, ah! why should you know?
I greatly doubt you would have cur'd,
Although you caus'd the woe.

I saw, alas! that you were fair,
I felt that you were dear;
And offer'd up a bootless pray'r,
For you were too severe.

I pray'd for joy-I sigh'd for bliss,
And fruitless was the sigh;

I took my warning, then, from this-
Experience bade me fly.

Believe me, I but seldom fear,
Nor am I us'd to flee;

I often stay too long to hear
A fair one lecture me:

For sweet lips speak a pretty strain,
E'en when they most upbraid:

I always wish to hear again

Such silver words persuade.

Emma! with you hope's smallest ray Was darken'd by despair:

Then had I sooner run away,

What were the wonder there?

I wept away my font of tears,
Sigh'd out my stock of sighs;
And pour'd much nonsense in your ears,
In raptures on your eyes.

But never will I sigh again,
Henceforth will weep no more;

It would but add another pain
To those I felt before.

But though I have no wish to dwell
On sorrows that are gone,
I own my fortune's serv'd me well,
Nor left me much to mourn.

My woes are on the brighter side,
My sorrows are but mild;

I really think I've wept and sigh'd
Less frequently than smil'd.

'Tis true, when Ellen ran away,
I thought how great my grief!
But, even though I wept that day,
The morrow brought relief.

T

Honoria clouded o'er her brow,
Her kindness laid aside;
Sweet Emily grew distant now,
And soon became a bride.

You, too, have sometimes had a share
In thoughts of pleasure past;

But, then, so much alloy was there,
Those thoughts would seldom last.

You know I vow'd not on my knee
I had not lov'd before :

I swore not, though you laugh'd at me,
That I would love no more.

I've seen a maid as fair as you;
Her beauty as divine;

Her cheeks as rich in rosy hue;
Her eye as brightly shine.

But, Emma, me you cannot blame
For any broken vow;

That I so early quench'd the flame,
And 'tis not burning now.

C. DASHWOOD.

ΤΟ

Who was seen to weep at the Church of

in the Mid

summer vacation, 1828, during the performance of these words :Thou turnest man, O Lord, to dust," &c.—Psalm xc.

Oh! do these words recall to mind
Some friend, no longer found below,
Whose weal and hopes with your's were twin'd,
As thou again may'st never know?

Oh! do they probe a feeling heart,

And make thine eye with sorrow wet; Hast thou been forc'd from one to part Thou never canst forget?

Or have these solemn notes the pow'r,
As through the vaulted aisles they peal
Seraphic sounds, at such an hour
To make thee more acutely feel?

Do they so deep impression make
As soft they vibrate on thy ear,
That feelings of devotion wake,

And prompt the gushing tear.

Or dost thou, in this hallow'd shrine,
Lay all of worldly thoughts aside,
And only think of themes divine ?—
Dost thou reflect on Him who died,

To save mankind? Who freely gave Himself a ransom e'en for thee? Who sought for mortals' sins the grave, To set offenders free?

Then dost thou weep that men repay

Such love with crime of deepest die, Whose stain man ne'er can wash away, Nor just atonement e'er supply?

If that thou shedd'st the conscious tear,
That guilt repays our Saviour's love,
That drop to angels may be dear,
And Christ himself approve.

TO A FRIEND.

ON LEAVING SALISBURY, AUGUST, 1828.

Adieu to the scenes of my mirth,

Where pleasures enraptur'd have flown, Adieu to the place that gave birth

To friendship so truly my own.

Alas! that I could but detain

This day which so saddens my heart,
Then here would I ever remain,
Yes-never as now to depart.

This eve, which approaches so fast,
Commands me to hasten away;
Like the river it comes-it is past-
No force can its torrent delay.

I go-but I ne'er shall forget-
And naught consolation shall lend;

I quit the dear spot with regret,

I leave an affectionate friend.

How cold is the breast which asserts,
That "Friendship is merely a name”.
Such feelings were ne'er his deserts,
Who thus could its power defame.

Oh! pleasures are doubly enjoy'd

When the heart of a friend we possess ;

If pensive, that grief is destroy'd,
His presence soothes all our distress.

The thought I must leave thee behind,
Oft calls from my bosom a sigh;
That thought brings a gloom on my mind,

And the tear-drop which moistens my eye.