Literary Gazette, 2nd September, 1826, Page 557
ORIGINAL POETRY.
METRICAL FRAGMENTS NO. III.
Iole to his Love.
It is in vain I seek
As I have sung to sing,
My heart has lost a pulse,
My lute has lost a string.
For the sleeping veil is rent,
And life may never seem
Such as when Love the colour gave,
And Hope lit up the dream.
For Love is dead to me,
And Hope has left my breast,
And Memory, like a bird,
Wails round her ruined nest.
I live on in my youth,
Although that youth to me
Is blighted, sear, and reft,
As autumn leaf could be.
I look upon the world
With too cold and clear an eye,
And for its joys and griefs
I have nor smile nor sigh.
Smiles have turn'd too oft to tears,
For me to smile again;
And wherefore should I sigh,
When I know that sighs are vain?
A dark and sullen calm
Is that upon my heart;
There is no change in earthly lot
Can bid its gloom depart.
Another spring may call
The garden from its tomb—
The green leaves in their freshness—
The bright flowers in their bloom.
But can the bud reblossom,—
Hope,—Love, their beauty shed,—
When the very soil is ruined,
And the heart itself is dead?
IOLE.
