Though this wild brain is aching,
Spill not thy tears with mine;
Come to my heart, though breaking,
Its firmest half is thine.
Thou wert not made for sorrow,
Then do not weep with me;
There is a lovely morrow,
That yet will dawn on thee.
When I am all forgotten—
When in the grave I lie—
When the heart that loved thee 's broken,
And closed the sparkling eye;
Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,
Unsullied, pure, and deep;
For the God who 's ever near thee,
Will never see thee weep.
TO THE CLYDE.
When cities of old days
But meet the savage gaze,
Stream of my early ways
Thou wilt roll.
Though fleets forsake thy breast,
And millions sink to rest—
Of the bright and glorious west
Still the soul.
When the porch and stately arch,
Which now so proudly perch
O'er thy billows, on their march
To the sea,
Are but ashes in the shower;
Still the jocund summer hour,
From his cloud will weave a bower
Over thee.
When the voice of human power
Has ceased in mart and bower,
Still the broom and mountain flower
Will thee bless.
And the mists that love to stray
O'er the Highlands, far away,
Will come down their deserts gray
To thy kiss.
And the stranger, brown with toil,
From the far Atlantic soil,
Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
Yet may come
To search the solemn heaps
That moulder by thy deeps,
Where desolation sleeps,
Ever dumb.
Though fetters yet should clank
O'er the gay and princely rank
Of cities on thy bank,
All sublime;
Still thou wilt wander on,
Till eternity has gone,
And broke the dial stone
Of old Time.