To him of his own works the praise, his due. Poems at the End of _John Woodvil_, 1802 HELEN _By Mary Lamb_ (_Summer_, 1800. _Text of_ 1818) High-born Helen, round your dwelling These twenty years I've paced in vain: Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty Hath been to glory in his pain. High-born Helen, plainly telling Stories of thy cold disdain; I starve, I die, now you comply, And I no longer can complain. These twenty years I've lived on tears. Dwelling for ever on a frown; On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread; I perish now you kind are grown. Can I, who loved my beloved But for the scorn "was in her eye," Can I be moved for my beloved, When she "returns me sigh for sigh?" In stately pride, by my bed-side, High-born Helen's portrait's hung; Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays Are nightly to the portrait sung. To that I weep, nor ever sleep, Complaining all night long to her-- _Helen, grown old, no longer cold_, _Said_, "you to all men I prefer." BALLAD _From the German_ (_Spring, 1800. Text of 1818_) The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, And ever the forest maketh a moan: Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching, Thus by herself she singeth alone, Weeping right plenteously. "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, In this world plainly all seemeth amiss: To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one, I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, Living right lovingly." HYPOCHONDRIACUS (_October, 1800. Text of 1818_) By myself walking, To myself talking, When as I ruminate On my untoward fate, Scarcely seem I Alone sufficiently, Black thoughts continually Crowding my privacy; They come unbidden, Like foes at a wedding, Thrusting their faces In better guests' places, Peevish and malecontent, Clownish, impertinent, Dashing the merriment: So in like fashions Dim cogitations Follow and haunt me, Striving to daunt me. In my heart festering, In my ears whispering, "Thy friends are treacherous, Thy foes are dangerous, Thy dreams ominous."