None build from the glories of song
The brighter existence above,
The realm which to poets belong,
The throne they bestow where they love.
Let earth its chill colours regain,
The moonlight depart from thy sea,
Explore through creation in vain
The fairy land vanish'd with me.
I take back the all I had given:
Thy charm, with my folly is o'er;
From the rank I assign'd thee in heaven
Descend to thy level once more.
O grief!—whether here or above,
Must my soul thus be sever'd from thine?
Ah, mourn—though I had not thy love—
The sin that bereaves thee of mine.
THE TREASURES BY THE WAYSIDE.
A TALE FOR SORROW.
The sky was dull, the scene was wild,
I wander'd up the mountain way;
And with me went a joyous child,
The man in thought, the child at play,
My heart was sad with many a grief;
Mine eyes with former tears were dim;
The child!—a stone, a flower, a leaf,
Had each its fairy wealth to him!
From time to time, unto my side
He bounded back to show the treasure;
I was not hard enough to chide,
Nor wise enough to share his pleasure.