Page:Extract from Edinburgh Literary Journal 1830.pdf/2



———Oh, never did the sky, Colour’d with sunset, wear so many hues As the heart wears, fill'd with the changeful thoughts That haunt its loneliness!

thee, do not speak to me    Of any other hour,— The past, for that can never be    Again within my power.

The future—what avails to raise A world we cannot guide? Our coming, like our former days, Will roll a mingled tide.

Life but repeats its joy or pain— Rebuilds its shrine o'erthrown; We feel what we have felt again, And known what we have known.

The plaything of the child but wears A graver shape or name; Whate'er the seeming that it bears, Its spirit is the same.

I will not hope—I will forget, My heart's depths are unstirr'd; On memory a seal is set, And Hope is a caged bird.

The present—let it be my all Of pleasure, or of care, Wreathe the red wreath—seek the bright hall, The glad are gather'd there.

Now out upon my own false words! Would I forget the past? No, by the memory of those chords Whose lot with it is cast!

The future—have I there no scope? Aye! by my dearest aim, That which has been my life's best hope— A poet's haunted name.

Music, which makes the singer's death Sweet as the song's own close; I do not ask a laurel wreath, I ask it of the rose.