Like perfumes on the wind, Which none may stay or bind, The beautiful comes floating through my soul; I strive with yearnings vain, The spirit to detain Of the deep harmonies that past me roll! Therefore disturbing dreams. Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; Something far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. Shall I then fear the tone That breathes from worlds unknown?— Surely these feverish aspirations there Shall grasp their full desire, And this unsettled fire Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. One more, then, one more strain, To earthly joy and pain A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! I pour each fervent thought, With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. THE IMAGE IN LAVA.* THOU thing of years departed! Temple and tower have moulder'd, * The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculanenm. And childhood's fragile image, Thus fearfully enshrin'd, Survives the proud memorials rear'd By conquerors of mankind. Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Upon thy mother's breast, When suddenly the fiery tomb Shut round each gentle guest? A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, Haply of that fond bosom, Thou wert the only treasure, child! Perchance all vainly lavish'd Its other love had been, And where it trusted, nought remain'd But thorns on which to lean. Far better then to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion'd grasp. Oh! I could pass all relics To gaze on this rude monument, Love, human love! what art thou? Wherein the mighty trust! |