Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou—who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
[Published in the Examiner, April 23, 1815.]
MY SOUL IS DARK.
My soul is dark—Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
- Even thou ——.—[MS. M.]
Nor need I write to tell the tale,
My pen were doubly weak;
Oh what can idle words avail,
Unless my heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart no longer free
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent turn for thee.—[MS. M.]
- [Compare "Nay, now, pry'thee weep no more! you know,... that 'tis sinful to murmur at... Providence."—"And should not that reflection check your own, my Blanche?"—"Why are your cheeks so wet? Fie! fie, my child!"—Romantic Tales, by M. G. Lewis, 1808, i. 53.]
- [Compare "My soul is dark."—Ossian, "Oina-Morul," The Works of Ossian, 1765, ii. 279.]