Yes Lady, I have loved, and few can guess How rough the wound that hath this bosom tore From all we prize on earth—the deep distress Which sleeps not, dies not—'till we hreathe no more; There is a sorrow, which doth more than weep, And tears, it were a mockery to shed; There is a silence, which loo well doth speak; The care how hopeless, when the heart hath bled ! I am not as I seem ! the cheek may wear a smile, Though bitter anguish rend the victim's breast: Think not that this can misery beguile, 'Tis the sad mimic of a scaffold jest! Perchance a look of better days will glow, Such is the flush consumption can impart, And such the emblem of a surer woe, The slow consuming of a broken heart. Is this to live? who would not rather dare The meanest bondage of the veriest slave 1 Rest comes not when I call : my God ! despair Points to that dark and mournful rest;—the Grave.
LINES SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY KING HENRY VI.
Kingdoms are but cares,
State is devoid of stay; Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.
