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It were a crime to weep!- 't is none to kneel,
As now I kneel, before this type of thee,
And worship her, who taught my soul to feel
Such worship is no vain idolatry:
Thou wert my spirit's spirit — and thou art,
Though this be all of thee time hath not reft,
Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart,
Like withered leaves that many storms have left ;
I turn from living looks — the cold, the dull,
To any trace of thee - the lost, the beautiful!
Broken, and bowed, and wasted with regret,
I gaze and
weep-- why do I
I would not — would not if I could — forget,
But I am all remembrance—it hath grown
My very being!— Will she never speak?
The lips are parted, and the braided hair
Seemed as it waved upon her brightening cheek,
And smile, and every thing — but breath — are there!
Oh, for the voice that I have stayed to hear,
Only in dreams,—so many a lonely year!
It will not be ;-away, bright cheat, away!
Cold, far too cold to love !- thy look grows strange;
I want the thousand thoughts that used to play,
Like lights and shadowings, in chequered change :
That smile!- I know thou art not like her now,-
Within her land- where'er it be- of light,
She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow:-
When will it pass away—this heavy night!
Oh! will the cool, clear morning never come,
And light me to her, in her spirit's home !
THE DECISION OF THE FLOWER.
'T is a history
Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale.
There is a flower, a purple flower,
Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower,
O'er which Love has breathed a power and spell
The truth of whispering Hope to tell.
Lightly the maiden's cheek has prest
The pillow of her dreaming rest,
Yet a crimson blush is over it spread
As her lover's lip had lighted its red.
Yes, sleep before her
has brought The image of her waking thought, — That one thought hidden from all the world, Like the last sweet hue in the rose-bud curled. The dew is yet on the grass and leaves, The silver veil which the morning weaves To throw o'er the roses, those brides which the sun Must woo and win ere the day be done. She braided back her beautiful hair O'er a brow like Italian marble fair. She is gone to the fields where the corn uprears Like an Eastern army its golden spears. The lark flew up as she passed along, And poured from a cloud his sunny song; And many bright insects were on wing, Or lay on the blossoms glistening; And with scarlet poppies around like a bower, Found the maiden her mystic flower. “Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell · If my lover loves me, and loves me well ; So may the fall of the morning dew Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue. Now I number the leaves for my lot, He loves not-he loves me - he loves me not!
He loves me,- yes, thou last leaf, yes,
I 'll pluck thee not, for that last sweet guess!
He loves me,"_“Yes !" a dear voice sighed :-
And her lover stands by Margaret's side.
One eve of beauty, when the sun
Was on the streams of Guadalquiver,
To gold converting, one by one,
The ripples of the mighty river;
Beside me on the bank was seated
A Seville girl with auburn hair,
eyes that might the world have cheated,
A wild, bright, wicked, diamond pair !
She stooped, and wrote upon the sand,
Just as the loving sun was going,
With such a soft, small, shining hand,
I could have sworn 't was silver flowing.
Her words were three, and not one more,
What could Diana's motto be?
The Syren wrote upon the shore-
• Death, not Inconstancy!'
And then her two large languid eyes
So turned on mine, that, devil take me !
I set the air on fire with sighs,
And was the fool she chose to make me.
Saint Francis would have been deceived
With such an eye and such a hand :
But one week more, and I believed
As much the woman as the sand.
In alto poggio, in vall’ im' e palustre :
Libero Spirito, od a' suoi membri affisso
Pommi con ama oscura ò non illustre
Sara qual fui ; vivro com' io son visso
Continuando il mio sospir trilustre.
I think of thee, I think of thee,
And all that thou hast borne for me ;
In hours of gloom, or heartless glee,
I think of thee — I think of thee!
When fiercest rage the storms of Fate,
And all around is desolate,
I pour on life's tempestuous sea
The oil of peace, with thoughts of thee !
When Fortune frowns, and Hope deceives me,
And summer friendship veers and leaves me,
A Timon from the world I flee, -
My wreck of wealth —sweet dreams of thee!
Or, if I join the careless crowd,
Where laughter peals, and mirth grows loud,
Even in my hours of revelry
I think of thee--I think of thee!
I think of thee, I think, and sigh
O’er blighted years, and bliss gone by;-
And mourn the stern, severe decree
That hath but left me — thoughts of thee!
In youth's gay hours, 'mid Pleasure's bowers,
When all was sunshine, mirth, and flowers,
We met-I bent the adoring knee,
And told a tender tale to thee!
'T was summer eve, — the heavens above-
Earth, ocean, air, were full of love ;-
Nature around kept jubilee,
When first I breathed that tale to thee!
The crystal arch that hung on high
Was blue as thy delicious eye ;-
The stirless shore, and sleeping sea,
Seemed emblems of repose and thee!
I spoke of hope, -I spoke of fear;-
Thy answer was a blush and tear;-
But this was eloquence to me,
And more than I had asked of thee!
I looked into thy dewy eye,
And echoed thy half-stified sigh,
I clasped thy hand, and vowed to be
The soul of love and truth to thee!
That scene and hour have past; yet still
Remains a deep impassioned thrill, —
A sun-set glow on memory,
Which kindles at a thought of thee!
We loved :- how wildly, and how well,
Twere worse than idle now to tell !
From love and life alike thou 'rt free,
And I am left to think of thee!
Though years — long years.— have darkly sped
Since thou wert numbered with the dead,
In fancy oft thy form I see, -
In dreams, at least, I'm still with thee!
Thy beauty helplessness ---and youth,-
Thy hapless fate-untiring truth,-
Are spells that often touch the key
Of sweet but mournful thoughts of thee!