"No, let the stoic heart call upon Death as kind! For me, I weep and hope; before the bitter wind I bend like some lithe palm. If there be long, sad days, others are bright and fleet; Alas! what honeyed draught holds nothing but the sweet? What sea is ever calm? "And still within my breast nestles illusion bright; In vain these prison walls shut out the noonday light; Fair Hope has lent me wings. So from the fowler's net, again set free to fly, More swift, more joyous, through the summer sky, Philomel soars and sings. "Is it my lot to die? In peace I lay me down, In peace awake again, a peace nor care doth drown, Nor fell remorse destroy. My welcome shines from every morning face, And to these downcast souls my presence in this place Almost restores their joy. "The voyage of life is but begun for me, And of the landmarks I must pass, I see So few behind me stand. At life's long banquet, now before me set, My lips have hardly touched the cup as yet Still brimming in my hand. "I only know the spring; I would see autumn brown; Like the bright sun, that all the seasons crown, I would round out my year. A tender flower, the sunny garden's boast, I have but seen the fires of morning's host; Would eve might find me here! "O Death, canst thou not wait? Depart from me, and go To comfort those sad hearts whom pale despair, and woe, And shame, perchance have wrung. For me the woods still offer verdant ways, The Loves their kisses, and the Muses praise: I would not die so young!" Thus, captive too, and sad, my lyre none the less Woke at the plaint of one who breathed its own distress, Youth in a prison cell; And throwing off the yoke that weighed upon me too, I strove in all the sweet and tender words I knew Her gentle grief to tell. Melodious witness of my captive days, These rhymes shall make some lover of my lays Seek the maid I have sung. Grace sits upon her brow, and all shall share, Who see her charms, her grief and her despair: They too "must die so young"! ODE May fewer roses calls her own, And fewer vines wreathe Autumn's throne, Fewer the wheat-ears of the field,-- Than all the songs that Fanny's smiles And Fanny's eyes and witching wiles Inspire my lips and lyre to yield. The secret longings of my heart In words of fire to being start, Moved by the magic of her name: As when from ocean's depths the shell Yields up the pearl it wrought so well, Worthy the Sultan's diadem. And thus from out the mulberry leaves The Cathay silkworm twines and weaves Her sparkling web of palest gold. Come, dear, my Muse has silk more pure And bright than hers, that shall endure, And all your loveliness enfold.