Early Love

The fond caress of beauty, O, that glow!
The first warm glow that mantles round the heart
Of boyhood! when all 's new — the first dear vow
He ever breathed — the tear-drops that first start,
Pure from the unpractised eye — the overflow
Of waken'd passions, that but now impart
A hope, a wish, a feeling yet unfelt,
That mould to madness, or in mildness melt.
Ah! where's the youth whose stoic heart ne'er knew
The fires of joy, that burst through every vein,
That burn forever bright, forever new,
As passion rises o'er and o'er again?
That, like the phoenix, die but to renew —
Beat in the heart, and throb upon the brain —
Self-kindling, quenchless as the eternal flame
That sports in Etna's base. But I 'm to blame
Ignobly thus to yield to raptures past;
To call my buried feelings from their shrouds,
O'er which the deep funereal pall was cast —
Like brightest skies entomb'd in darkest clouds;
No matter, these, the latest and the last
That rise, like spectres of the past, in crowds;
The ebullitions of a heart not lost,
But weary, wandering, worn, and tempest- toss'd.
'T is vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys
Which, like the hour that's gone, return no more;
Bubbles of folly, blown by wanton boys —
Billows that swell, to burst upon the shore —
Playthings of passion, manhood's gilded toys,
(Deceitful as the shell that seems to roar,
But proves the mimic mockery of the surge:)
They sink in sorrow's sea, and ne'er emerge.