Literary Gazette, 1st March 1823, Page 139
All, all forgotten! Oh, false Love!
I had not deemed that this could be,
That heart and lute, so truly thine,
Could both be broken, and by thee.
I did not dream, when I have loved
To dwell on Sorrow's saddest tone,
That its reality would soon
Be but the echo of mine own.
Farewell! I give thee back each vow,
Vows are but vain when love is dead;
What boot the trammels, when the bird
They should have kept so safe, is fled?
But go! be happy and be free,
My heart is far too warm for thine;
Go! and 'mid Pleasure's lights and smiles,
Heed not what tears and clouds are mine.
But I,—oh, how can I forget
What has been more than life to me!
Oh wherefore, wherefore was I taught
So much of passion's misery!
Thy name is breathed on every song—
How can I bid those songs depart?
The thoughts I've treasur'd up of thee
Are more than life-blood to my heart.
But I may yet learn to forget;
I am too proud for passion's chain;
I yet may learn to wake my lute—
But never at Love's call again.
I will be proud for you to hear
Of glory brightening on my name;
Oh vain, oh worse than vanity!
Love, love is all a woman's fame.
Then deepest silence to the chords
Which only wakened for thy sake;
When love has left both heart and harp,
Ah what can either do but break!—L. E. L.