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AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR.
And thou art dead, as young and fair
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
There is an eye which could not brook
I will not ask where thou liest low,
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
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,
Who didst not change through all the past,
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
The better days of life were ours;
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine,
That all those charms have pass'd away;
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
I know not if I could have borne
The night that follow'd such a morn
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
As stars that shoot along the sky
As once I wept, if I could weep,
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.'
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the SunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
[From The Hebrew Melodies.]
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM.
Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Or make one mourner weep the less?