No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is all forgot?
Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein
Thou callst thy tresses! I shall stay thee not—
My struggles were but vain!
But shall I see thee far beyond the sun,
When the new dawn lights Empyrean scenes?
What matters now? I know the poem's done,
And wonder what the dickens it all means!
Anonymous.
LINES BY A FOND LOVER
Lovely maid, with rapture swelling,
Should these pages meet thine eye,
Clouds of absence soft dispelling;—
Vacant memory heaves a sigh.
As the rose, with fragrance weeping,
Trembles to the tuneful wave,
So my heart shall twine unsleeping,
Till it canopies the grave.
Though another's smile's requited,
Envious fate my doom should be;
Joy forever disunited,
Think, ah! think, at times on me!
Oft, amid the spicy gloaming,
Where the brakes their songs instil,
Fond affection silent roaming,
Loves to linger by the rill—
There, when echo's voice consoling,
Hears the nightingale complain,
Gentle sighs my lips controlling,
Bind my soul in beauty's chain.
Oft in slumber's deep recesses,
I thy mirror'd image see;
Fancy mocks the vain caresses
I would lavish like a bee!