For mute are then the sounds of mirth
I loathe, yet cannot flee;
And thoughts in solitude have birth,
That lead me back to thee.
By day, amid the busy herd,
My soul is like the captive bird
That struggles to be free;
It longs to leave a world unblest,
To 'flee away and be at rest!'
III.
Rest! how, alas! shall mortal dare
Of rest on earth to dream?
The heritage of ceaseless care
May better far beseem
The child of grief, the heir of wo;
And what if mutual love may throw
A joy-imparting beam
On life's wide waste?—'t is quickly gone,
And he must wander on—alone!
IV.
It was no charm of face or mien,
That linked my heart to thee;
For many fairer have I seen,
And fairer yet may see:
It was a strong though nameless spell,
Which seemed with thee alone to dwell,
And this remains to me,
And will remain: thy form is fled,
But this can e'en recall the dead.
V.
Thine image is before me now,
All angel as thou art;
Thy gentle eye and guileless brow,
Are graven on my heart;
And when on living forms I gaze,
Mem'ry the one loved form portrays;
Ah! would it ne'er depart!
And they alone are fair to me,
Who wake a livelier thought of thee.
VI.
Oft, too, the fond familiar sound
Is present to mine ear;
I seem, when all is hushed around,
Thy thrilling voice to hear.
Oh! could I dream thou still wert nigh,
And turn as if to breathe reply,
The waking how severe!
When on the sickening soul must press
The sense of utter loneliness!
VII.