There was no glance from thee that threw A single beam upon my way; No word from whose sweet tone I drew Yet 'twas thy gift, and cold and few I kept the flower, 'tis faded now, These withered leaves-there is no spell If hope for me shall bloom no more! TO More dark than winter's darkest cloud, The sin whose daily shadows shroud Poor, tempted, toilsome lives like mine! Though in my better moments rise Thoughts, feelings, hopes of holier aim, Too oft-like meteors from the skiesThey flash, fall, vanish as they came! Dear lady, then, in happy time, Was that sweet promise breathed by thee: That with thy vows a prayer should climb And ask a boon from Heav'n for me. 'Tis said that when His Angels sue, The Merciful bends down His ear: Sweet lady, if the tale be true, What blessings wait upon thy prayer! ΤΟ 'Twas ill enough the pang to know New shadows o'er my clouded breast. I felt that Time, too swift till then, And, knowing that earth's hopes must wait I trembled at the thought that Fate Yet I was blest that, come what might, No absence, distance, change, delay, Could dim the faith that, pure and bright, Lit up thy heart with perfect day. And though there came not to mine ear It is not thus-not thus, that now I count bright things as yet in store; Not thus recall each happy vow Our eager lips breathed o'er and o'er. Think not that I repent my trust, As rashly flung upon thy youth, For I will hold all faith as dust, Ere I will doubt me of thy truth. But, pure and gentle as thou art, Believing all things what they seem, Wilt thou not wound thine own kind heart, Ere thou wilt break another's dream? Forbid to know how fondly dwells And taught, perhaps, that, all unkind, Some word, in pain or weakness spoken, Shows feelings harsh and unrefined, Rude vows, as rudely to be broken. Ah, tell me feeling, knowing this— Then blame me not if each sad hour Thou know'st that thou and only thou To cherish me, whate'er betide? TO Sweet lady! not in jest I said That, all too bright to linger long, With youth's swift hours from me had fled My little gift of joyous song. 'Tis true 'twere folly, yet, for me To talk of weariness and woe, And feign to feel the vanity And emptiness of things below. But yet-look upward as we may— A cloud upon the brightest day And so the green earth wears not now The very beams that o'er it glow, Have robbed it of its diamond dew. And well-nigh spent, with me, the spell That wins from life one-half its sorrow, The heart which, if to-day goes well, Beats careless of the dim to-morrow! Yet, lady! when I look on thee, A brighter hue bright mem'ries wear— Thoughts, strangers long, come back to me, And dreams, not baseless, throng the air. |