Tho' love and song may fail, alas!
To keep life's clouds away,
At least 'twill make them lighter pass,
Or gild them if they stay.
And even if Care at moments flings
A discord o'er life's happy strain,
Let Love but gently touch the strings,
'Twill all be sweet again!
PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!
When I am dead.
Then lay my head
In some lone, distant dell,
Where voices ne'er
Shall stir the air,
Or break its silent spell.
If any sound
Be heard around,
Let the sweet bird alone,
That weeps in song,
Sing all night long,
"Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"
Yet, oh, were mine
One sigh of thine,
One pitying word from thee,
Like gleams of heaven,
To sinners given,
Would be that word to me.
Howe'er unblest,
My shade would rest
While listening to that tone;—
Enough 'twould be
To hear from thee,
"Peace, peace, to him that gone."
ROSE OF THE DESERT
Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray,
Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away;
No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,—
In vestal silence left to live and die.—
Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be,
Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.
Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom!
Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom;
Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day;
A moment cherished, and then cast away;
Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,—
Worshipt while blooming—when she fades, forgot.