« AnkstesnisTęsti »
TO MARY, ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CON- -
How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep!
One, pale as yonder waning moon,
Hath then the gloomy Power
Must then that peerless form
As breathing marble, perish?
Or is it only a sweet slumber
Will Ianthe wake again,
And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life, and rapture, from her smile?
Yes! she will wake again,
Although her glowing limbs are motionless,
And on their lids, whose texture fine
Hark! whence that rushing sound? "Tis like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells, Which, wandering on the echoing shore, The enthusiast hears at evening: "Tis softer than the west wind's sigh; "Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings