Louisa Stuart Costello: Verses about Love

In early days thy fondness taught
My soul its endless love to know;
Thy image waked in every thought,
Nor fear'd my tongue to tell thee so.

In all the trusting faith of youth,
That knows no dread, that feels no care,
I deem'd thy heart was all of truth,
And I the cherish'd object there.

Alas! the vision'd bliss is gone—
Too soon those days were o'er!
This heart still loves—but loves alone—
Its joys are there no more

Ye elves! when spangled starlight gleams,
That flit beneath the ray,
Till morning darts her magic beams
And pale night hies away:
Ye know where springs each flow'ret rare,
The sweetest seek for me:
I'll weave a chaplet rich and fair—
My father! 'tis for thee!

The flow'rs, the trees, the birds appear
To wait but on my call;
But he whose power has plac'd them here
Is dearer far than all:
My thoughts with tender pleasure rest
On each delight I see;
But all the love that swells in my breast,
My father, is for thee!

Why look'd I on that fatal line?
Why did I pray that page to see?
Too well I knew no word of thine
Was fraught with aught but pain to me.
I should have known, I should have thought
The fleeting hope would soon decay!
So oft the gleam of joy it brought
Has only shone to pass away.
Thy hand had traced the words I read;
And in that dream I wandered on—
Forgot their cherish'd spell was fled,
Thy vows no more—thy fondness gone.
I lived whole years of joy again
I dwelt on each recorded vow;
Oh! tender was their meaning then—
Alas! they have no meaning now!

Oft on that latest star of purest light,
That hovers on the verge of morning gray,
I gaze, and think of eyes that gleam'd as bright,
As fondly linger'd, and yet pass’d away.

While this true heart in every throb can tell
'Tis changeless since the first fond hour we met—
While at thy name it wakes, as to a spell,
I feel 'tis not in nature to forget!

Thou canst not have forgot the tender hour
When we our parting tears together shed;
Thou canst not have forgot the fading flower
That ask'd thy hand to raise its drooping head.

Thy voice, thy looks, thy sighs, too truly spoke—
Oh! how could they deceive thyself and me?
No! death alone the bond of truth has broke,
And cast oblivion on the world and thee!

Adieu!—'tis past—the dream is over,
And we are friends no more;
And now my task shall be to smother
Thoughts prized too well before—
That we have ever loved or met,
All, but our parting, to forget.


Thou, the first friend my heart had chosen—
Whose wish, whose hope was mine,
Farewell!—the once warm vows are frozen
That lured my fate to thine:
Each link of that bright chain is gone
That bound our mutual hearts in one.


I will not blame my soul's believing,
That ne'er thy faults could see;
The error was thy own deceiving,
Not mine, who trusted thee:
This heart can never learn to fear
Deceit in one it holds so dear.


How could I hear, without relying,
Thy lute's wild melody,
Though false as Echo's voice replying
To some lone wand'rer's cry—
Unworthy as the scentless flower,
Whose beauty is its only dower?


Of all the moments since our meeting,
When both seem'd fond and true,
Now thou art cold as they were fleeting,
Be this my last review:
No more—our hearts, our fates must sever,
And I erase thy name for ever!

ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM BAHIA

When thou stoodst amidst thy countrymen
Our captive and our foe,
What voice of pity was it then
That check'd the fatal blow?

When the name of the mighty 'Man of Fire'
Re-echoed to the sky,
And our chiefs forgot their deadly ire—
Who hail'd thy victory?

What voice like the softest, sweetest note
That rings from the slender white bird's throat,
Has soothed thee so oft to rest?
And thou hast said, so tenderly,
That to sit among willow isles with me
Was to be ever blest!

Oh! have we not wander'd in silent night
When the thick dews fell from the weeping bough;
And then these eyes, like the stars, were bright—
But are wet like those mournful branches now.

Like the leafless plant that twines around
The forest tree so fair and high,
And when in that withering clasp 'tis bound,
Leaves the blighted trunk to die,—
Thy vows round my trusting heart have bound,
And now thou leav'st me to misery!



Thou wilt not return—thy words are vain!
Thou wilt cross the deep blue sea;
And some dark-eyed maid of thy native Spain
Will hold thee far from me.

The summer will come, and our willow shore
Will hear the merman sing;
But thou wilt list to his song no more
When the rocks with his music ring:

He will murmur thy falsehood to every cave—
Or will tell of thy death on the stormy wave.
Ah! no; ah! no; 'tis of mine he'll tell—
I will weep no more—farewell!—farewell!

Look from thy bark, how I follow afar;
How I scorn the winds' and the billows' war;—
I sink! the waves ring loudly my knell;
My sorrows are passing—farewell!—farewell!

Would'st thou be happy, would'st thou be free,

Come to our woody islands with me!

Come, while the summer sun is high,

Beneath the peach tree's shade to lie;

Or thy hunter will shield thee the live-long day

In his hut of reeds from the scorching ray.

There countless birds with wings of light

Shall flit and glitter before thy sight,

And their songs from the stately palm trees nigh

Shall charm thee with ceaseless melody.


The Cayman shall not lurk within

To steal around thy bed;

But the leopard shall yield his spotted skin

That thy couch may be warmly spread.


The river-serpent, with glittering coil,

Shall plunge beneath the tide;

And the Ao shall shun the happy isle

That hails my gentle bride.


Thou shalt list to the hymn of the forest choir

As eve comes gently on,

How the woods resound

With the lengthen'd sound,

Till in distance it is gone.


Thou shalt mark the ounce in his leafy shade,

How he lures his finny prey—

Whose colours, in the gleam display'd,

Illumine the wat'ry way.


The bright dorado shall glitter by

With scales of gold and blue,

As the lucid waters tremblingly

Reflect each varying hue.

Come, my beloved, delay no more;

I linger for thee upon the shore.


Fear not the rocks that darken our course;

Our canoes are swift and strong:

Fear not the eddy's hurrying force;

We shall dart, like light, along.


The willows are waving to hail us home;

When the hunter and his bride shall come:

All the joys of summer stay for thee—

Oh, come to our woody islands with me.

What are the dreams of him who may sleep

Where the solemn voice of the troubled deep

Steals on the wind with a sullen roar,

And the waters foam along the shore?

Who shelter'd lies in some calm retreat,

And hears the music of waves at his feet?


He sees not the sail that passes on

O'er the sunny fields of the sea, alone,

The farthest point that gleams on the sight,

A vanishing speck of glittering light.


He sees not the spray that, spreading wide,

Throws its lines of snow on the dark green tide;

Or the billows rushing with crests of foam

As they strove which first should reach their home—


Their home! What home has the restless main,

Which only arrives to return again,

Like the wand'rer she bears on her stormy breast,

Who seeks in vain for a place of rest.


Lo! His visions bear him along

To rocks that have heard the mermaid's song:

Or, borne on the surface of some dark surge,

Unharm'd he lies, while they onward urge


Their rapid course, and waft him away

To islands half hid 'midst the shadowy spray,

Where trees wave their boughs in the perfum'd gale,

And bid the wave-borne stranger hail;


Where birds are flitting like gems in the sun,

And streams over emerald meadows run,

That whisper in melody as they glide

To the flowers that blush along their side.


Sorrow ne'er came to that blissful shore,

For no mortal has entered that isle before:

There the Halcyon waits on the sparkling strand

Till the bark of her lover the Nautilus land;


She spreads her purple wings to the air,

And she sees his fragile vessel there—

She sees him float on the summer sea,

Where no breath but the sigh of his love may be.


The dreamer leaps towards that smiling shore—

When, lo! the vision is there no more!

Its trees, its flowers, its birds are gone—

A waste of waters is spread alone.


Plunged in the tide, he struggles amain—

High they pour, and he strives in vain:

He sinks—the billows close over his head,

He shrieks—'tis over—the dream is fled;


Secure he lies in his calm retreat,

And the idle waters still rave at his feet.