AND HENRI QUATRE.
217
On how Affection's bark was launched and lost:—
Love, thou hast hopes like Summers, short and bright,
Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams,
Intense delicious throbs! But happiness
Is not for thee. If ever thou hast known
Quiet, yet deep enjoyment, 'tis or ere
Thy presence is confessed; but, once revealed,
We bow us down in passionate devotion
Vowed to thy altar, then the serpents wake
That coil around thy votaries—hopes that make
Fears burning arrows—lingering jealousy,
And last worst poison of thy cup—neglect!...
...It matters little how she was forgotten,
Or what she felt—a woman can but weep.
She prayed her lover but to say Farewell—
To meet her by the river where such hours
