« PrécédentContinuer »
WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid ?
Divided, yet belov'd in vain;
To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
That softly said, “ We part in peace,”
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.
Prepar'd a light and pangless dart-
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent Sorrow fears to-sigh, Till all was past? But when no more
'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast- -as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers, Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand ; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss so guiltless and refin'd
That Love each warmer wish forbore Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Ev'n passion blush'd to plead for more
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
unlike thee, to repine;
celestial from thy voice,
But where is thine?-ah, where art thou?
But never bent beneath till now!
The cup of woe for me to drain ;
I would not wish thee here again :
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
To wean me from mine anguish here.
To bear, forgiving and forgiv'n :
It fain would form my hope in heav'n!
Away, away, ye notes of woe!
Be silent thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days:
But lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze
On what I am, on what I was.
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony
Is worse than discord to my heart!
"Tis silent all !-but on my ear
The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still. Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake: • Ev'n slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream ; A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.