Sinks thro' the greensward!-is there not a cry To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me! None Have heavier cause!—yet hear!-my soul grows dark Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown, Its freight of human hearts?-th' o'ermastering wave! Who shall tell how it rush'd-and none to save? Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know, There would be rescue if this were not so. Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, Thou'rt where the dancers meet! —a magic glass Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall; I see one shadow, stateliest there of all,— -- Thine!-What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, Whispering light words, and mocking my despair? It is not well of thee!-my love was more Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, With all its blighted hopes around it lying; Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leafYet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief! Death!—what, is death a lock'd and treasur'd thing, Guarded by swords of fire ?2 a hidden spring, A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, As if the world within me held no cure? Wherefore not spread free wings-Heaven, Heaven! controul These thoughts-they rush-I look into my soul As down a gulph, and tremble at th' array of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray, So shall their dark host pass. The storm is still'd. Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst sound The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child, That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, And peace at last is nigh. A sign is on my brow, a token sent Th' o'erwearied dust, from home: no breeze flits by, But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent Of many mysteries. Hark! the warning tone Deepens its word is Death. Alone, alone, Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, Thee, its first love!-oh! tender still, and true! Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, Now, with fainting frame, With soul just lingering on the flight begun, Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back, Tho' bought with burning tears! It is the sting In this cold world! What were it then, if thou, Into that word: thou hear'st not, but the wo To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell- |