Leave that lugubrious chant to fools!
Must doubt destroy our present bliss?
Shall we through fear love's rapture miss,
Or lose the honey of its kiss?
Aimons!

"The sun will set at day's decline";
Qu'importe?
Will not the eternal stars still shine?
So even in life's darkest night
A thousand quenchless suns are bright,--
Blest souvenirs of past delight;
Allons!




TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI, AFTER READING HER "RECOLLECTIONS OF LORD BYRON"

Like one who, homeward bound from distant lands,
Describes strange climes and visions passing fair,
Yet deftly hides from others' eyes and hands
A private casket filled with treasures rare,
So, favored Countess, all that thou dost say
Is nothing to thy secrets left unsaid;
Thy printed souvenirs are but the spray
Above the depths of ocean's briny bed.
For, oh! how often must thy mind retrace
Soft phrases whispered in the Tuscan tongue,
Love's changes sweeping o'er his mobile face,