Lady Caroline Lamb Poems

My heart's fit to break, yet no tear fills my eye,
As I gaze on the moon, and the clouds that flit by;
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I'm sick of fame-I'm gorged with it-so full
I almost could regret the happier hour
When northern oracles proclaimed me dull,
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Amidst the flowers rich and gay,
That deck the fairy paths of pleasure,
I mark'd one violet in my way,
And seiz'd the little purple treasure.
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If a dark wretch e'er stray'd,
Worse than the first fell slayer,
'Tis he that wooes a maid,
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Let the harp be mute for ever,
Rosa wakes no more the strain,
All its strings asunder sever,
Rosa will not sing again:
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Harriet Wilson, shall I tell thee where,
Beside my being cleverer,
We differ?-thou wert hired to hold thy tongue,
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Would I had seen thee dead and cold,
In thy lone grave asleep,
Than live, thy falsehood to behold,
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After many a well-fought day,
When with gen'rous ardour burning,
Soldiers to their home returning,
Chide the long and tardy way.
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Little birds in yonder grove,
Making nests, and making love,
Come sing upon your favorite tree,
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As the flower early gathered, whilst fresh in its bloom,
So was she whom I mourn for sent young to the tomb;
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