Think, think, thou cruel Emma, When thou shalt hear my woe, And know my sad dilemma, That thou hast made it so. See, see my beaver rusty, Look, look upon this hole, This coat is dim and dusty; Oh let it rend thy soul! Before the gates of fashion I daily bent my knee, But I sought the shrine of passion, And found my idol,--thee. Though never love intenser Had bowed a soul before it, Thine eye was on the censer, And not the hand that bore it. THE PHILOSOPHER TO HIS LOVE DEAREST, a look is but a ray Reflected in a certain way; A word, whatever tone it wear, Is but a trembling wave of air; A touch, obedience to a clause In nature's pure material laws. The very flowers that bend and meet, In sweetening others, grow more sweet; The clouds by day, the stars by night, Inweave their floating locks of light; The rainbow, Heaven's own forehead's braid, Is but the embrace of sun and shade. Oh! in the hour when I shall feel Those shadows round my senses steal, When gentle eyes are weeping o'er The clay that feels their tears no more, Then let thy spirit with me be, Or some sweet angel, likest thee! How few that love us have we found! How wide the world that girds them round Like mountain streams we meet and part, Each living in the other's heart, Our course unknown, our hope to be Yet mingled in the distant sea. But Ocean coils and heaves in vain, Bound in the subtle moonbeam's chain; And love and hope do but obey Some cold, capricious planet's ray, Which lights and leads the tide it charms To Death's dark caves and icy arms. Alas! one narrow line is drawn, That links our sunset with our dawn; In mist and shade life's morning rose, And clouds are round it at its close; But ah! no twilight beam ascends To whisper where that evening ends. THE POET'S LOT WHAT is a poet's love?-- To write a girl a sonnet, To get a ring, or some such thing, And fustianize upon it. What is a poet's fame?-- Sad hints about his reason, And sadder praise from garreteers, To be returned in season. Where go the poet's lines?-- Answer, ye evening tapers! Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, Speak from your folded papers! Child of the ploughshare, smile; Boy of the counter, grieve not, Though muses round thy trundle-bed Their broidered tissue weave not. The poet's future holds No civic wreath above him; Nor slated roof, nor varnished chaise, Nor wife nor child to love him. Maid of the village inn, Who workest woe on satin, (The grass in black, the graves in green, The epitaph in Latin,) Trust not to them who say, In stanzas, they adore thee; Oh rather sleep in churchyard clay, With urn and cherub o'er thee! TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER WAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf To me looks more than deadly pale, Unknowing what may stain thee yet,-- A poem or a tale. Who can thy unborn meaning scan? Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now? No,--seek to trace the fate of man Writ on his infant brow.