And on our path, where'er we roam, Go, singing of its home! (Like Arethusa's rill, of old, That through the earth, and through the sea, Led on its waters sweet and cold, In unstained purity; And rose as fresh as at its spring, Its sweet, sad lay,—that steals along, Where hopes-like fairies-used to play, Left withered rings about the heart! Young mother!-'t is a joy to creep,— Where memory keeps the stone!— Till, soothed by voices from the tomb, And chastened by the church-yard gloom, The spirit comes abroad—to see That earth has, still, such forms as thee! (Oh! fairer than those winged things That came to counsel and depart, The friend, the mother, and the wife; My soul is glad to gaze on thee ;- TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. I. NAY, hold, sweet lady, thy cruel hand; As on flowerets born but to bloom and die! II. With none to respond our evening sigh, III. Oh lady, list to the voice of mirth, IV. Even now in the midst of that circle blest, There are lonely thoughts in thine aching breast; And how wouldst thou weep, if, bereft of all, Thou shouldst sit alone in thine empty hall? |