The Origin Of Love?
The ‘ Origin Of Love?’ – Ah why That cruel question ask of me When thou may’st read in many an eye He starts to life on seeing thee? And should’st thou seek his end to know My Heart Forebodes, my fears foresee He’ll linger long in silent woe But live – until I cease…
Remember Thee! Remember Thee!
Remember thee! Remember thee! Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not. Thy husband too shall think of thee! By neither shalt thou be forgot, Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss’d Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust Like Foolish Prophets forth; their words to Scorn Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
Oh, come with old Khayyam, and leave the Wise To Talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies One thing is certain; and the Rest is Lies The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Oscar Of Alva – Origins
Faded is Alva’s noble race, And gray her towers are seen afar No more her heroes urge the chase, Or roll the crimson tide of war. But who was last of Alva’s clan? Why grows moss on Alva’s stone? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone.
Line To A Lady Weeping
WEEP, daughter of a royal line, A Sire’s disgrace, a realm’s decay Ah! happy if each tear of thine Could wash a father’s fault away! Weep – for thy tears are Virtue’s tears – Auspicious to these suffering isles And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people’s smiles! Lord Byron
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare And those that after a TO-MORROW stare A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries “Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There!”
Ah make the most of what we yet may spend Before we too into the Dust descend Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie Sans Wine, sans Songs, sans Singer and – sand End!
And we, that now make merry in the Room They left, and Summer dresses in new Bloom Ourselves must we beneath the Couch Of Earth Descend, ourselves to make a Couch – for whom?
Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and best That time and Fate of all their Vintage prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to Rest.