There is a voice, I shall hear no more— There are tones, whose music for me is o'er; Sweet as the odours of spring were they,— Precious and rich—but they died away; They came like peace to my heart and ear— Never again will they murmur here; They have gone like the blush of a summer morn, Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.
There were eyes that late were lit up for me, Whose kindly glance was a joy to see; They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart, Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art; Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring When birds in the vernal branches sing; They were filled with love, that hath passed with them, And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose: And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile, As I mused on their eloquent power the while, Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain With raptures, that never may dawn again; Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed— Alas! for the doom of the early dead!
Alas! for the clod that is resting now On those slumbering eyes—on that faded brow; Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom— For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb; Their melody broken, their fragrance gone, Their aspect cold as the Parian stone; Alas for the hopes that with thee have died— Oh loved one!—would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear; I hear thy voice in the twilight air; Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see When the visions of evening are borne to me; Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm— My arm embraceth thy graceful form; I wake in a world that is sad and drear, To feel in my bosom—thou art not here.
Oh! once the summer with thee was bright; The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light. There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh, There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh; Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest— A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast; My heart was full of a sense of love, Likest of all things to heaven above.
Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall Where my budding raptures have perished all; To that tranquil and solemn place of rest, Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast; Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid— Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;— All that was lovely to me is there, Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
LINES
[ Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend. ]