CHRISTINE.
Oh! Love can take
What shape he pleases, and when once begun
His fiery inroad in the soul, how vain
The after knowledge which his presence gives:
We weep or rave, but still he lives,—he lives
Master and lord, 'midst pride and tears and pain.
Barry Cornwall.
I cannot, cannot change my tone,
My lute must breathe what is its own;
It is my own heart that has taught
My constancy of mournful thought.
Tell me not of Spring's sunshine hour,
I have but known its blight and shower;
And blame me not, that thus I dwell
On love's despair, and hope's farewell.
I know not what this life may be;
I feel but what it is to me.
My gift of song, let others claim
The golden violets of fame,
I would but have it breathe to thee
My deep and lone fidelity;
