Hope has her emblem, so has Love,

But I have vainly sought

For one, that might entirely prove

The picture of my thought.

If violets, when fresh with dew,

Could amaranthine be,

Their soothing, deep, and glowing hue

Would justly speak for me.

Or to some plant with tendrils fine,

With blossoms sweet and gay,

This office I would now assign;

But flowers will all decay!

A bird would suit my purpose more,

With filial heart endued;

But, ere their little life is o'er,

Birds lose their gratitude!

No emblem of the love I feel

Appears within my view;

Less ardent, or less pure the zeal,

Less tender, or less true!

All I can do is to avow,

My services are thine;

And that my spirit still shall bow,

Before my Valentine.

I look'd into her eyes,

And saw something divine,

For there, like summer lightning,

Swift coruscations shine.

Still flashing, and still changing,

Attemper'd soft and bright,

Through each expression ranging,

From pity to delight.

From high or zealous feeling,

From arch, excursive grace,

From all with which a lovely mind

Endows the human face.

Perhaps a new and careless eye

May not those beauties see,

And wonder to behold the power

Belinda has with me.

The spell which holds this captive soul

She never would possess,

Were not her varying features rul'd

By sparkling playfulness,

But when with aimless, trackless skill

Is twin'd a mazy chain,

In the warm foldings of a heart,

Perforce it must remain.

Come, Magdalen, and bind my hair,

And put me on my sad array;

I to my father's house repair,

And hear his final doom to-day.

But wrap me in that cypress veil;

At first his eye I would not brave,

'Till he shall bid the mourner hail,

And knows I come from Edwin's grave.

I, late his boast, his heir, his pride,

Must like a guilty vassal kneel;

I, who was gallant Edwin's bride,

Must to my widow'd state appeal!

Closely within my heart must keep

His praise for whom that heart is riv'n,

And let each fond resentment sleep,

For I must die or be forgiven.

Manuel, I do not shed a tear,

Our parting to delay!

I dare not listen to my fear!

I dare not bid thee stay!

The heart may shrink, the spirit fail,

But Spaniards must be free;

And pride and duty shall prevail

O'er all my love for thee!

Then go! and round that gallant head,

Like banners in the air,

Shall float full many a daring hope,

And many a tender prayer!

Should freedom perish—at thy death,

'T'were folly to repine—

And I should every feeling lose,

Except the wish for mine!

But if the destiny of Spain,

Be once again to rise,

Oh! grant me heaven, to read the tale,

In Manuel's joyful eyes!

I am unskill'd in speech: my tongue is slow

The graceful courtesies of life to pay;

To deck kind meanings up in trim array,

Keeping the mind's soft tone: words such as flow

From Complaisance, when she alone inspires!

And Caution, with a care that never tires,

Marshals each tribe of thoughts in such a way

That all are ready for their needful task,

The moment the occasion comes to ask,

All prompt to hear, to answer and obey;

When mine, undisciplin'd, their cause betray,

By coward falterings, or rebellious zeal!—

And Art, though subtle, though sublime thy sway,

I doubt if thou canst rule us, when we feel!

And didst thou think that worldly art
Would mould anew this shrinking heart?
No! as a bird, by storms opprest,
Is sheltered in its silent nest,
I nurse and soothe it in the strife,
Screen from the bleakest airs of life,
And bring it all that once you knew,
As kind, as timid, and as true!

But how could I so foolish be,
As not to feel a doubt of thee?—
This joy to find me still the same
Takes from my lip the power to blame;
Else, but forgive me, else I find
A mist has stolen o'er thy mind,
And veil'd my prospect; dimm'd that light
Which once was warm, and clear, and bright.

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!

'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.

Yes! I can suffer, sink with pain,
With anguish I can ill