A month—no, not a month,—by Heaven! Had fled since she was pledged to me— Since _I_ love’s parting kiss had given To seal _her_ vows of constancy! The very moon was not yet old, Whose crescent beam our loves had lighted— Yet ere those few short weeks were told, She had forgot the faith she plighted! I heard her lips that faith forswear— And, while those lips revealed the tale, My very soul it blushed that e’er It could have loved a thing so frail! Yet scorn—it was not scorn that stung— ’Twas pity—horror—grief, that moved me— I felt the wrong—the shameless wrong, But spared the heart that once had loved me! Yes, faithless, false, as now I found it, That heart had beat against my own, And I—I could not bear to wound it, When all its shielding worth was flown. What though I could believe no more In _such_ as her own lips revealed her! Yet still when all Love’s faith was o’er, Love’s tenderness remained to shield her. And when the moment came to break The subtle chain around me cast, Like me she seemed in soul to ache At riving of its links at last. Could they betray my mind once more, Those pleading looks? yes! even then, So sweet the guise of truth they wore, I _wished_ to be deceived again. Ay! strangely, as at first we met— There did, by Heaven! around her hover Such light of warmth and truth, that yet I, at the last, was still her lover! And when I saw her brow o’ercast— Saw tears from those soft eyelids melt, I recked not, cared not for the past, But there, adoring, would have knelt! That moment to her lip and eye There came that calm and loveless air, Light Beauty, when its triumph’s nigh, Will tow’rd its easy victim wear. No test—no time—no fate had wrought O’er soul like mine so strong a spell, As in that moment chilled to naught Love that did seem unquenchable! We parted—not as lovers part— No kind farewell—no fond regret Was uttered _then_ from either heart— We parted only to forget! We parted, not as lovers part, As lovers we can meet no more. Let Time decide in either heart Which most such parting shall deplore. * * * * * TO A LADY SINGING. BY GEORGE HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” “THE RUINS OF ATHENS,” ETC. When to my closing eye this world And all its bright illusions fade, And at my heart the dull, cold hand Of Death, to still its throb, is laid; O! Lady, let some voice like thine Breathe, as from Heaven’s own blissful air, One cheering tone, and I shall deem My spirit is already there. * * * * * SHAKSPEARE.