Why gaze on thee, when I might look on her?
Ah, often in this world, the mourning heart
Seeks least, thro’ fear, the things it would prefer!
For when unto my lip there rose the jest,
And I seemed coldest, to the throng around,
Then most love burned within my wearied breast,
And strongest, with its chain, my heart was bound.
As o’er Italian seas the “Vesper Hymn”
Comes gently:—so her voice in music stole;
My tongue did falter, and mine eyes grew dim;