Faint and give way within me, as a flower
Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss? Yet shall I fear that lot?—the perfect rest,
The full, deep joy of dying on thy breast, After long-suffering won? So rich a close Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.
Sunset!-I tell each moment-from the skies. The last red splendor floats along my wall, Like a king's banner!-Now it melts, it dies!
I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call, Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too soon. I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam Through my lone lattice pour'd I sit and dream
Of summer-lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron-grove,
May breathe from terror.
Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.
I hear my veins beat.-Hark! a bell's slow chime. My heart strikes with it.-Yet again-'tis time! A step!-a voice!—or but a rising breeze? Hark!-haste!—I come, to meet thee on the seas.
Now never more, oh! never, in the worth Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth Trust fondly-never more!-the hope is crush'd That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd That spoke sweet oracles; and I return To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn, Where sunshine may not find it.—All is lost! No tempest met our barks-no billow toss'd; Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be, That so have lov'd, so striven our hearts to free From their close-coiling fate! In vain-in vain! The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, And press out life.-Upon the deck I stood, And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, Like some proud bird of ocean; then mine eye Strained out, one moment earlier to descry
The form it ached for, and the bark's career
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning. It drew near, Fraught with our foes!-What boots it to recall The strife, the tears? Once more a prison-wall Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, And joyous glance of waters to the light, And thee, my Seymour, thee!
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chaint hat bound thee; And this shall be my strength-the joy to think
That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath around thee,
And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yet Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken, And unto me, I know, thy true love's token Shall one day be deliverance, though the years Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears.
My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day, Gliding, like some dark, mournful stream, away,
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile, Fills the green forest ;-young hearts breathe their
Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise
Round the glad board; Hope laughs from loving eyes: All this is in the world!-These joys lie sown,
The dew of every path-On one alone
Their freshness may not fall-the stricken deer, Dying of thirst with all the waters near.
Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers! By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers,
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent, Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been, Through the leaves, pouring its dark, sultry blue Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you Hath murmur'd, and the rill.-My soul grows faint With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint
Your haunts by dell and stream,-the green, the free, The full of all sweet sound,-the shut from me!
There went a swift bird singing past my cell- O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things! With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,
And by the streams; but I-the blood of kings, A proud, unmingling river, through my veins Flows in lone brightness,—and its gifts are chains! Kings I had silent visions of deep bliss, Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crush'd.-Oh! Heaven is far,— Earth pitiless!
Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am prov'd So long, so sternly! Seymour, my belov'd! There are such tales of holy marvels done By strong affection, of deliverance won
Through its prevailing power! Are these things told Till the young weep with rapture, and the old
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