TO ERATO.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Henceforth let Grief forget her pain,
And Melancholy cease to sigh;
And Hope no longer gaze in vain
With weary, longing eye,
Since Love, dear Love, hath made again
A summer in this winter sky—
Oh, may the flowers he brings to-day
In beauty bloom, nor pass away.
Sweet one, fond heart, thine eyes are bright,
And full of stars as is the heaven,
Pure pleiads of the soul, whose light
From deepest founts of Truth is given—
Oh let them shine upon my night,
And though my life be tempest-driven,
The leaping billows of its sea
Shall clasp a thousand forms of thee.
Thy soul in trembling tones conveyed
Melts like the morning song of birds,
Or like a mellow paèn played
By angels on celestial chords;—
And oh, thy lips were only made
For dropping love's delicious words:—
Then pour thy spirit into mine
Until my soul be drowned with thine.
The pilgrim of the desert plain
Not more desires the spring denied,
Not more the vexed and midnight main
Calls for the mistress of its tide,
Not more the burning earth for rain,
Than I for thee, my own soul's bride—
Then pour, oh pour upon my heart
The love that never shall depart!