Alas! there's far from russet frieze To silks and satin gowns, But I doubt if God made like degrees In courtly hearts and clowns. My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth, And brought her cheeks to blame, And all that's lordly of my birth Is my reproach and shame! 'Tis vain to weep,--'tis vain to sigh, 'Tis vain, this idle speech, For where her happy pearls do lie, My tears may never reach; Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride May say, of what has been, His love was nobly born and died, Though all the rest was mean! My speech is rude,--but speech is weak Such love as mine to tell, Yet had I words, I dare not speak, So, Lady, fare thee well; I will not wish thy better state Was one of low degree, But I must weep that partial fate Made such a churl of me. THE EXILE. The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas, The wind that I sigh to Will visit thy trees. The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me!--I must never See England again! There's many that weep there, But one weeps alone, For the tears that are falling So far from her own; So far from thy own, love, We know not our pain; If death is between us, Or only the main. When the white cloud reclines On the verge of the sea, I fancy the white cliffs, And dream upon thee; But the cloud spreads its wings To the blue heav'n and flies. We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies! TO ---- Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow; The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine:-- Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine. Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks,-- The white were all too happy to look white: For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks; It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright! Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf Curls manifold,--all love's delights blow double: 'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief,-- But let that hint of a forgotten trouble. I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon; Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night;-- 'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon! And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light! These golden Buttercups are April's seal,-- The Daisy-stars her constellations be: These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee! Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:-- A wight once made a dial of their bloom,-- So may thy life be measured out by flowers! ODE TO MELANCHOLY. Come, let us set our careful breasts, Like Philomel, against the thorn, To aggravate the inward grief, That makes her accents so forlorn; The world has many cruel points, Whereby our bosoms have been torn, And there are dainty themes of grief, In sadness to outlast the morn,-- True honor's dearth, affection's death, Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn, With all the piteous tales that tears Have water'd since the world was born.