XXXVI.

WHOM HAVE I KNOWN?

WHOм have I known that I remember best?

Whom do I feel that I most truly loved?

Who fix'd his image never to be moved
From the clasp'd cabinet of my brain and breast

Was it not he of wise and chaste desire

Of brightest thought, yet sweetest modesty;
With tongue of eloquence and eye of fire;
Yet unaware of how he stood so high,
From never looking down on any guest?

Was it not he who, as a gracious knight

Curbs his steed proudly, rein'd his temper in;
Whose simple presence was rebuke to sin;
Whose manly charity was death to spite;
Who look'd on mortal foibles with a glance
Of tenderness; who knew to list as well

As to discourse with kingly utterance;

Who scorn'd to wound where if a harsh word fell
The wound were deadly as the adder's bite?

To greatest minds the least is ever known

Of their own greatness. Theirs the towering thought

That dwarfs each noble deed themselves have wrought.

Likest to GOD, and nearest to his throne,

Are they who under blatant calumnies

Keep mute the tongue can fulmine to the skies
For others' right; whom simple pleasures please;
And who, o'er heights of toil and sacrifice,

Find their chief meed in thoughts of duty done.

XXXVII.

HEART-ACHE.

WHAT simple fools the tender passion makes
Of many a goodly youth! Friend CHARLES, I know
The coil that chafes thee;-I have guess'd thy woe.
Thou lov'st where love the fever'd motion takes
Of torturing doubt. The proud LISETTE has charms
As sparkling as Aurora's pearly gleams:

Oh that her cincture were thy seeking arms!

Yet when thou fain would'st clasp her in thy dreams,

She is gone like Summer mist when morn awakes.

When thou would'st spurn her as a maid forsworn, She calms thy jealous frenzy with a smile:

When thou would'st hang thy faith upon her wile,

Her looks are cold, and thou art quite forlorn.
Poor page! that bendest to her beckoning brow
When she would teach the world her beauty's state,
Her brooch or bracelet is as prized as thou!
She is a tyrant whom thy pride should hate:
She is a mocker whom thy truth should scorn.

Of thy own worth thy sense must be as slight
As of its precious freight the carrier-dove:
Why wreck the treasure of so great a love
On one who draweth from thy pain delight?

Leave her alone, a mark for any blast.

Win a true heart, where comes nor storm nor cold:

So shall thy life, its perilous trial past,

Be as a billow by the headlands roll'd

To silvery ripples in the shelter'd bight.

XXXVIII.

EPITHALAMIUM.

SHE is thine at last-thy own adoring wife!

Thank the dear GOD for so divine a boon.

Heaven opes its beauty on thy honeymoon:

Thou see'st the light that when thy mortal strife

Is ended may be thine for evermore.

So full of happiness, thy bosom now

Can hold no pain: thou wert asleep before,

With dreams of anguish working on thy brow:

Thou now hast waken'd to a finer life.