Written on being accused of coldness of character and manners by some
friends--1830.
They call me cold--they know me not, nor can they understand
The warmth of my affections, by the breeze of _kindness_ fanned;
My feelings may not show themselves in countenance or voice,
But my _heart_ can weep with those who weep--with those who sing,
rejoice!
My best affections lie concealed--I bring them not to light,
For I know that those with whom I dwell can never read them right;
But their fountain, tho' it calmly flow, is warm and full and deep,
And the stream of love within my breast, tho' _silent_, does not
_sleep_.
To all the dearest ties of life I cling most tenderly;
And the few whose unbought love is mine, compose the world to me:
It is not those who feel the most their feelings best express,
Nor those the most sincerely fond, who with the _tongue_ can bless--
The paltry counterfeit may shine with radiancy as bright
As the costly gem which monarchs wear--may look as pure and white;
The artificial rose may glow with a color full as fair
As the lovely flower which nature rears in sunshine and in air;
'Tis time, and time alone, can show the real gem and flower,
And time will oft on those we love, exert its magic power;
It may change the beaming smiles to frowns, kind greetings to
disdain,
And cause the _seeming_ friend to scorn our poverty and pain.
Oh! it is not thus with me, I know, the tide of feeling flows;
Affection may not speak in looks, but in my bosom glows,
With a warmth which time can never chill, scarce injuries suppress,
And my heart responds to every tone of the voice of tenderness.