They tell me, lady, that thy heart is changed—
That on thy lip there is another name;
I'll not believe it—though for life estranged—
I know thy love's lone worship is the same.
The bee that wanders on the summer breath,
May wanton safely among leaves and flowers,
But by the honied jar it clings till death—
There is no change for hearts that loved like ours.
You may not mock me—'tis an idle game—
The lip may lie, the eye with bright beguiling
May, from the world, conceal a suffering flame,
But 'tis the eye and not the heart is smiling;
And I, too, have that power of deceiving,
By the strong pride of an unfeeling will,
The cold and cunning world in its believing—
What boots it all? The heart will suffer still.
Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreaming
In the lone hours of the voiceless night,
When the sweet past like a new present seeming,
Brings back those rosy hours of love and light?
Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit then
Delicious joy—although 'tis but a vision—
That we have met, caressed and kissed again,
And revel still among those sweets Elysian?
Comes there not o'er thy spirit when it wakes,
And finds, with sleep, the vision too hath parted
A lone depression, till thy proud heart aches,
And from thy burning orb the tear hath started?
And with sad memories through thy bosom thronging,
Within thy heart's most secret deep recesses
Feel'st thou not then an agony of longing
To dream again of those divine caresses?
To dream them o'er and o'er, or deem them real,
While penitence is speaking in thy sighs—
For this, unlike thy dream, is not ideal—
It brings the pallid cheek, the moistened eyes:
Then, lady, mock not love so deeply hearted,
With that light seeming which deceit can give—
The love I promised thee, when last we parted,
Shall never be another's while you live.
