Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cool winds come.
O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
To watch her Love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decay'd by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.
By fits a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying;
By fits so ashy pale she grew
Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seem'd in her frame residing:
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear,
She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd,
She knew and waved to greet him
And o'er the battlement did bend
As on the wing to meet him.
He came he pass'd-an heedless gaze
As o'er some stranger glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.
Sir Walter Scott
Earl March look'd on his dying child,
And, smit with grief to view her—
"The youth," he cried, "whom I exiled
Shall be restored to woo her."
She's at the window many an hour
His coming to discover:
And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
And she look'd on her lover
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling-
And am I then forgot-forgot?"
It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.
Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art-
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow, upon the mountains and the moors :—
No-yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever, or else swoon to death.
THE TERROR OF DEATH
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piléd books in charact'ry,
Hold, like rich garners, the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge, cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love-then on the shore.
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
John Keats
Surprised by joy-impatient as the wind
I turn'd to share the transport-Oh! with whom
But Thee-deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind-
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!-That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
William Wordsworth
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so
And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft and charms so rare
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low
Nor gaze upon the spot:
There flowers or weeds at will may grow
So I behold them not;
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell
'Tis Nothing, that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last,
As fervently as thou,
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