CHARADE.
Darker and darker still, the slow hours creeping,
Bring to my first the inexorable gloom;
Silent and soft, the tender skies are weeping
For all the beauty they no more illume.
Stay not. O wand'rer, by the hurrying river,
Nor in the whispering wood, nor where above
Rises the perilous crag. My second ever,
With added final, welcomes all who rove.
Wildly my third over the hill is flying,
Over the wide moor, and the wider sea,
Moaning as one whose latest hope, in dying,
Leaves an eternity of agony.
Listen! oh, listen! to my whole, while filling
My shadowy first with ecstasy divine!
Listen! oh, listen! would ye not be willing
Ever in gloom to dwell, and not repine,—
Ever to joy in such melodious gladness,—
Ever to sorrow in such rapturous sadness?
L.S.