[From Issue #319, 1 March 1823 (p 139-140)
Discussed in http://medallionwafers.wordpress.com/tag/Ariadne

Ariadne’s story is often told as an aside to the story of Theseus, whom she aided in defeating the minotaur (her half-brother) and escaping the labyrinth. In most versions of the story, the two eloped, but Theseus abandoned Ariadne as she slept and sailed away without her.]

Head of Ariadne
Oh, why should Woman ever love,
  Throwing her chance away,
Her little chance of summer shine,
  Upon a rainbow ray?

Look back on each old history,
  Each fresh remembered tale;
They’ll tell how often love has made
  The cheek of woman pale;--

Her unrequited love, a flower
  Dying for air and light;
Her love betrayed, another flower
  Withering before a blight.

Look down within the silent grave;
  How much of breath and bloom
Have wanted,--passion’s sacrifice
  Offered to the lone tomb.

Look on her hour of solitude,
  How many bitter cares
Belie the smile with which the lip
  Would sun the wound it bears.

Mark this sweet face! oh never blush
  Has past o’er one more fair,
And never o’er a brighter brow
  Has wandered raven hair.

And mark how carelessly those wreaths
  Of curl are flung behind,
And mark how pensively the brow
  Leans on the hand reclined.

‘Tis she of Crete!--another proof
  Of woman’s weary lot;
Their April doom of sun and shower,--
  To love, then be forgot.

Heart-sickness, feelings tortured,
  A sky of storm above,
A path of thorns,--these are love’s gifts,--
  Ah, why must woman love!

[From Issue #319, 1 March 1823 (p 140)
Discussed in: http://medallionwafers.wordpress.com/tag/an-old-man/]

An old Man standing by the dead body of a Youth.

I am too proud by far to weep,
  Though earth had nought so dear
As was the Soldier Youth to me
  Now sleeping on that bier.
It were a stain upon his fame
Would do his laurel crown a shame,
  To shed one single tear.
It was a blessed lot to die
In battle, and for liberty!

He was my first, my only child,
  And when my race was run,
I was so proud to send him forth
  To do as I had done.
It was his last, his only field:
They brought him back upon his shield,
  But victory was won.
I cannot weep when I recall
Thy land has cause to bless thy fall.

When others tell their children all
  The fame that warriors win,
I must sit silent, and but think
  On what my child had been.
It is a father’s joy to see
The young eyes glow exultingly
  When warlike tales begin;
And yet I know no living one
I would change for my sleeping Son.

[From Issue #319, 1 March 1823 (p 140)

Nereids, in Greek mythology, were sea nymphs.]

A Nereid floating on a Shell

Thy dwelling is the coral cave,
Thy element the blue sea wave,
Thy music the wild billows dashing,
Thy light the diamond’s crystal flashing:
I’d leave this earth to dwell with thee,
Bright haired daughter of the sea !
It was an hour of lone starlight
When first my eye caught thy sweet sight:
Thy white feet prest a silver shell,
Love’s own enchanted corracle;
Thy fair arms waved like the white foam
The seas dash from their billowy home;
And far behind, thy golden hair,
A bright sail, floated on the air;
And on thy lips there was a song,
As music wafted thee along.
They say, sweet daughter of the sea,
Thy look and song are treachery;
Thy smile is but the honied bait
To lure thy lover to his fate.
I know not, and I care still less;
It is enough of happiness
To be deceived. Oh, never yet
Could love doubt--no, one doubt would set
His fettered pinions free from all
His false but most delicious thrall.
Love cannot live and doubt; and I,
Vowed slave to my bright deity,
Have but one prayer: Come joy, come ill,
If I am deceiv’d deceive me still;
Better the heart in faith should die
Than break beneath love’s perjury.

[From Issue #319, 1 March 1823 (p 140)
Discussed in: http://medallionwafers.wordpress.com/tag/conclusion/]

Conclusion

All, all forgotten! Oh, false Love!
  I had not deemed that this could be,
That heart and lute, so truly thine,
  Could both be broken, and by thee.

I did not dream, when I have loved
  To dwell on Sorrow’s saddest tone,
That its reality would soon
  Be but the echo of mine own.

Farewell! I give thee back each vow,
  Vows are but vain when love is dead;
What boot the trammels, when the bird
  They should have kept so safe, is fled?

But go! be happy and be free,
  My heart is far too warm for thine;
Go! and ‘mid Pleasure’s lights and smiles,
  Heed not what tears and clouds are mine.

But I, -- oh, how can I forget
  What has been more than life to me!
Oh wherefore, wherefore was I taught
  So much of passion’s misery!

Thy name is breathed on every song --
  How can I bid those songs depart?
The thoughts I’ve treasur’d up of thee
  Are more than life-blood to my heart.

But I may yet learn to forget;
  I am too proud for passion’s chain;
I yet may learn to wake my lute --
  But never at Love’s call again.

I will be proud for you to hear
  Of glory brightening on my name;
Oh vain, oh worse than vanity!
  Love, love is all a woman’s fame.

Then deepest silence to the chords
  Which only wakened for thy sake;
When love has left both heart and harp,
  Ah what can either do but break!--L. E. L.