Oh! how could my heart so falsely gauge,
Singing that more than now I could not love thee!
Others, like me, may, at thy budding age,
Hold every feeling in sweet vassalage
Unto thy charms. But I — by all above me! —
Will prove thee suzerain of my soul more nearly;
When Time his arts shall 'gainst thy beauty wage,
To break their serfdom — serving thee more dearly.

Mark how the sunset, with its parting hues,

I will love her no more! — 'tis a waste of the heart,
This lavish of feeling — a prodigal's part —
Who, heedless, the treasure a life could not earn
Squanders forth where he vainly may look for return.

I will love her no more — it is folly to give
Our best years to one, when for many we live.
And he who the world will thus barter for one,
I ween, by such traffic must soon be undone.

I will love her no more — it is heathenish thus
To bow to an idol which bends not to us;
Which heeds not, which hears not, which recks not for aught

As he who, on some clouded night,
When wind and tide attend his bark,
Waits for the North star's steady light
To shine above the waters dark,
Will often for its guiding beam
Mistake some wandering meteor's ray;
But wilder'd by that fitful gleam
Doubt yet to launch upon the stream,
Till wind and tide have passed away, —

So I, if ever Life's dark sea
Be swept by some propitious gale,
Look for my guiding light in thee,
Before I dare to spread my sail;
So, while thy smiles deceitful shine,
Then leave all darker than before,

Well! call it Friendship! have I asked for more,
Even in those moments when I gave the most?
'Twas but for thee I looked so far before!
I saw thy bark was hurrying blindly on,
A guideless thing upon a dangerous coast, —
With thee, — with thee, where would I not have gone?
But could I see thee drift upon the shore,
Unknowing drift, upon a shore unknown?
Yes, call it Friendship, and let no revealing,
If Love be there, e'er make Love's wild name heard,
It will not die, if it be worth concealing!
Call it then Friendship — but oh, let that word

Tis hard to share her smiles with many!
And while she is so dear to me,
To fear that I, far less than any,
Call out her spirit's witchery!
To find my inmost heart when near her
Trembling at every glance and tone,
And feel the while each charm grow dearer
That will not beam for me alone.

How can she thus, sweet spendthrift, squander
The treasures one alone can prize?
How can her eyes to all thus wander,
When I but live in those sweet eyes?
Those syren tones so lightly spoken
Cause many a heart I know to thrill;

Her heart is like a harp whose strings
At will are touched alike by all:
Her heart is like a bird that sings
In answer to each fowler's call.
That harp! — has it one secret tone
Reserved for master hands alone?
That bird! has it one soulful note
Which only toward its mate will float?

Let it not wile thy soul away,
That harp, with its beguiling touch;
Let not that bird's bewildering lay
Thrill through thy bosom over-much:
They'll cheat thine eyes of sleep to-night,
Yet find thee dreaming with the light

Tell her I love her — love her for those eyes
Now soft with feeling, radiant now with mirth,
Which, like a lake reflecting autumn skies,
Reveal two heavens here to us on earth —
The one in which their soulful beauty lies,
And that wherein such soulfulness has birth:
Go, autumn flower, before the season flies,
And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast —
Go! and with all of eloquence thou hast,
The burning story of my love discover,
And if the theme should fail, alas! to move her,
Tell her, when youth's gay budding time is past,

She loves — but 'tis not me she loves: —
Not me on whom she ponders,
When in some dream of tenderness
Her truant fancy wanders.
The forms that flit her visions through
Are like the shapes of old,
Where tales of Prince and Paladin
On tapestry are told.
Man may not hope her heart to win,
Be his of common mould!

But I — though spurs are won no more
Where herald's trump is pealing,

Ay! there it is, that winning smile,
That look that cheats my heart for ever,
That tone that will my brain beguile
Till reason from her seat shall sever.
All, all bewitching, as when last
I for the twentieth time forswore them,
Resistless as when first I cast
My whole adoring soul before them.

Like carrier doves that hurry back
To the bright home from which they're parted,
However blind may be their track,
Or far the goal from which they started, —
So from Love's jesses if e'er free
I set my thoughts one moment roving,

They are mockery all — those skies, those skies —
Their untroubled depths of blue;
They are mockery all — these eyes, these eyes,
Which seem so warm and true.
Each quiet star in the one that lies,
Each meteor glance that at random dies
The other's lashes through;
They are mockery all, these flowers of spring,
Which her airs so softly woo;
And the love to which we would madly cling,
Ay! it is mockery too;
The winds are false which the perfume stir,
And the looks deceive to which we sue,
And love but leads to the sepulchre,