Though friendships differ endless in degree , The sorts , methinks, may be reduced to three. Ac quaintance many, and Con quaintance few; But for In quaintance I know only two-- The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo!
The Two Founts. Stanzas Addressed To A Lady On Her Recovery, With Unblemished Looks, From A Severe Attack of Pain
'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be, That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure When straight from Dreamland came a dwarf, and he Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.
Methought he fronted me with peering look Fixed on my heart; and read aloud in game The loves and griefs therein, as from a book; And uttered praise like one who wished to blame.
In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin Two Founts there are, of Suffering and of Cheer! That to let forth, and this to keep within! But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,
Of Pleasure only will to all dispense, That Fount alone unlock, by no distress Choked or turned inward; but still issue thence Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness.
As on the driving cloud the shiny Bow, That gracious thing made up of tears and light, Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright:
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, In weaving each its wreath and dewy crown, Or e'er they sank to earth in vernal showers, Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.
Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine, On that benignant face, whose look alone (The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine!) Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own.
A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, But with a silent charm compels the stern And tort'ring Genius of the Bitter Spring, To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.
Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found In passion, spleen, or strife,) the Fount Of Pain O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, Had passed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream:
Till audibly at length I cried, as though Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes, O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so, I pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise!
In every look a barbed arrow send, On those soft lips let scorn and anger live! Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend! Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give!
The Virgin's Cradle-Hymn. Copied From A Print Of The Virgin, In A Roman Catholic Village In Germany
Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet Quae tam dulcem somnum videt, Dormi, Jesu! blandule! Si non dormis, Mater plorat, Inter fila cantans orat, Blande, veni, somnule.
ENGLISH.
Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling: Mother sits beside thee smiling; Sleep, my darling, tenderly! If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, Singing as her wheel she turneth: Come, soft slumber, balmily!
The Visionary Hope
Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confessed, Sickness within and miserable feeling: Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, Each night was scattered by its own loud screams: Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain. That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he would-- For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.
