To M. B.

(collected)

In you I fondly hoped to clasp
… a friend whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,
… detached you from my breast for ever.

True, she has forced you from my breast,
… yet in my heart you keeps your seat;
There, there your image still must rest,
… until that heart shall cease to bet.

And when the grave restores her dead,
… when life again to dust is given,
On your dear breast I’ll lay my head —
… without you where would be my heave?


* * *

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss:
Nor then should be sated my soul;
Still would I kiss and cling to you:
Nor should my kiss from your dissever;
Still would we kiss and kiss forever;
Even though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest’s countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist? — ah! never — never!


* * *


When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live, —
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! Envelope my faculties fast,
Shed over me your languor benign;
Should the dream of tonight but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality’s emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!