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YES--I have loved and honoured thee
Nor guile, nor fear of guile were mine ; But, oh! since thou can'st faithless be,
I'll grieve not for a heart like thine !
Lady, when first thine azure eye
Met and controlled my raptured gaze, I breathed the fond impassioned sigh
That youthful love to beauty pays.
Could I have known, what now I know,
Its beam but brightened to betray, In vain had shone the spurious glow
That led a trusting heart astray.
'Tis not an eye of brightest hue
Can woman's nobler spell impart ; Fidelity and feeling true
Forge the strong fetters of the heart.
The transient charm hath lost its power,
Indignant pride shall now rebel; For, cold and false One! from this hour,
My soul is free-Farewell !-Farewell ! SUMMER AND WINTER.
(WRITTEN IN INDIA IN THE COLD season.]
At this season of the year, in dear Old England, how exquisite is the enjoyment of a brisk morning walk and the social evening fire. Though a cold day in Calcutta is not exactly like a cold day in London, it often revives the remembrance of it. An Indian winter is indeed far less agreeable than a winter in England, but it is not without its pleasures. The mornings and evenings are sometimes truly delightful.
Still, however, who would not prefer the more wholesome frigidity of England ? There, the external gloom and bleakness enhance our in-door comforts, and we do not miss sunny skies when greeted with sunny looks. 'If we see no blooming gardens, we see blooming faces. But as we have few domestic enjoyments in this country, and as our houses are as open as birdcages, we have little comfort when compelled to remain at home on a cold day, with a sharp easterly wind whistling through every room. In our dear native country each season has its peculiar moral or physical attractions. It is not easy to say which is the most agreeable—its summer or its winter. Perhaps I must decide in favour of the former. The memory of many a smiling summer day still flashes upon my soul. If the whole of human life were like a fine day in June, we should cease to wish for another and a better world. From dawn to sunset it is one revel of delight. How pleasantly, from the first break of day, have I lain wide awake, and traced the approach of the breakfast hour by the increasing notes of birds, and the advancing sunlight on my curtains ! A summer feeling, at such a time, would steal upon my
spirit, as I thought of the long, cheerful day before me, and
With what a light heart and eager appetite did I enter the little breakfast parlour, whose glass-doors opened upon a bed of
flowers! The table was spread with dewy and delicious fruits from our own garden, and gathered by fair and friendly hands. Beautiful and luscious as were these natural dainties, they were of small account in comparison with the fresh cheeks and cherry lips that so frankly accepted the wonted early greeting. Alas! how that dear, domestic circle is now divided, and what a change has since come over the spirit of our dreams! Yet still I cherish boyish feelings, and the past is sometimes present. As I give an imaginary kiss to an old familiar face,' and catch myself almost unconsciously, yet literally, returning imaginary smiles, my heart is as fresh and fervid as of yore. Fifteen years and fifteen thousand miles do not change or separate faithful spirits, nor annihilate early associations. Parted friends may still share the light of love, as severed clouds are equally kindled by the same sun.
I must not be too egotistically garrulous in print, or I would now describe the various ways in which I have spent a summer's day in England. I would dilate upon my noon-day loiterings amidst wild ruins, and thick forests, and on the shaded banks of rivers—the pic-nic parties—the gipsy prophecies—the twilight homeward walk—the social tea drinking, and, the last scene of all, the “ rosy dreams and slumbers light,' induced by wholesome exercise and placid thoughts. But perhaps these few simple allusions are sufficient to awaken a train of kindred associations in the reader's mind, and he will thank me for those words and images that are like the keys of memory, and open all her cells with easy
force.' If a summer's day be thus rife with pleasure, scarcely less so is a day in winter, though with some little drawbacks, that give, by contrast, a zest to its enjoyments. It is difficult to leave the warm morning bed and brave the external air. The fireless grate and frosted windows may well make the stoutest shudder. But when we have once screwed our courage to the sticking point, and with a single jerk of the clothes, and a brisk jump from the bed, have commenced the operations of the toilet, the battle is nearly over. The teeth chatter for a while, and the limbs shiver, and we do not feel particularly comfortable whilst breaking the ice in our jugs, and performing our cold ablutions amidst the sharp, glass-like fragments, and wiping our faces with a frozen towel. But these petty evils are quickly vanquished, and as we rush out of the house, and tread briskly and firmly on the hard ringing earth, and breathe our visible breath in the clear air, our strength and self-importance miraculously increase, and the whole frame begins to glow. The warmth and vigour thus acquired are inexpressibly delightful. As we re-enter the house, we are proud of our intrepidity and vigor, and pity the effeminacy of our less enterprising friends, who though, huddled together round the fire, like flies upon a sunny wall, still complain of cold, and instead of the bloom of health and animation exhibit pale and pinched cheeks, blue noses, and hands cold, rigid, and of a deadly hue. Those who rise with spirit on a winter morning, and stir and thrill themselves with early exercise, are indifferent to the cold for the rest of the day, and feel a confidence in their corporeal energies, and a lightness of heart that are experienced at no other season. But even the timid and luxurious are not without their pleasures. As the shades of evening draw in, the parlour twilight—the closed curtains—and the cheerful fire, make home a little paradise to all !
The warm and cold seasons of India have no charms like these, but yet people who are guiltless of what Milton so finely calls 'a sullenness against nature, and who are willing in a spirit of true philosophy and piety, to extract good from every thing, may make themselves happy even in this land of exile. While I am writing this paragraph, a little bird in my room, who is as much a foreigner here as I am, is pouring out his soul in a flood of song. His notes breathe of joy. He pines not for an English meadow-he cares not for his