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Он, no! my heart can never be Again in lightest hopes the same; The love that lingers there for thee Has more of ashes than of flame. Still deem not but that I am yet
As much as ever all thine own; Though now the soul of love be set On a heart chill'd almost to stone. And can you marvel? only look
On all that heart has had to bearOn all that it has yet to brook,
And wonder then at its despair.
Oh, love is destiny, and mine
Has long been struggled with in vain; Victim or votary, at thy shrine
There I am vow'd-there must remain.
My first-my last-my only love,
Oh blame me not for that I dwell On all that I have had to prove
Of Love's despair, of Hope's farewell. I think upon mine early dreams,
When youth, hope, joy, together sprung; The gushing forth of mountain streams,
On which no shadow had been flung. When love seem'd only meant to make A sunshine on life's silver seas,— Alas, that we should ever wake,
And wake to weep o'er dreams like these!
I loved, and love was like to me
Whatever wild wish may prevail.
I deem'd that love had power to part
And shed its influence over all.
I link'd it with all lovely things,
Beautiful pictures, tones of song, All those pure, high imaginings,
That but in thought to earth belong. And all that was unreal became Reality when blent with theeIt was but colouring that flame,
More than a lava flood to me. I was not happy-love forbade
Peace by its feverish restlessness; But this was sweet, and then I had Hope, which relies on happiness.
I need not say how, one by one,
Love's flowers have dropp'd from off love's chain; Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.
I know not what the pangs may be
That hearts betray'd or slighted proveI speak but of the misery
That waits on fond and mutual love.
It sitteth cold, immutable, and still,
At times we see and struggle with our chain,
We mock our actual strength with lofty thought, And towers that look into the heavens are wrought, But after all our toil the task is naught.
Down comes the stately fabric, and the sands
The heart builds up its hopes, though not address'd
We mock ourselves with freedom and with hope, The while our feet glide down life's faithless slope; One has no strength, the other has no scope.
So we are flung on time's tumultuous wave, Forced there to struggle, but denied to save, Till the stern tide ebbs-and there is the grave.
I Do not say bequeath unto my soul
I need my thoughts for other things than thee,
Will leave the hours that are to come more lonely. I live not like the many of my kind;
Mine is a world of feelings and of fancies, Fancies whose rainbow-empire is the mind,
Feelings that realize their own romances. To dream and to create has been my fate,
Alone, apart from life's more busy scheming; I fear to think that I may find too late
Vain was the toil, and idle was the dreaming. Have I uprear'd my glorious pyre of thought
Up to the heavens, but for my own entombing? The fair and fragrant things that years have brought, Must they be gather'd for my own consuming? Oh! give me back the past that took no part In the existence it was but surveying; That knew not then of the awaken'd heart
Amid the life of other lives decaying.
Why should such be mine own? I sought it not:
Is what I wish'd, and thought to picture only. Surely the spirit is its own free will;
What should o'ermaster mine to vain complying With hopes that call down what they bring of ill, With fears to their own questioning replying? In vain, in vain! Fate is above us all;
We struggle, but what matters our endeavour? Our doom is gone beyond our own recall, May we deny or mitigate it? never!
WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN!
WE might have been! these are but common words,
We might have been so happy! says the child,
It is the thought that darkens on our youth,
Alas! how different from what we are
Had we but known the bitter path before us; But feelings, hopes, and fancies left afar, What in the wide bleak world can e'er restore us? We might have been!
It is the motto of all human things,
The end of all that waits on mortal seeking; The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings, It is the cry of the worn heart while breakingWe might have been!
And when, warm with the heaven that gave it birth,
The last fair angel lingering on our earth,
A cold fatality attends on love,
Too soon or else too late the heart-beat quickens; The star which is our fate springs up above, And we but say, while round the vapour thickens, We might have been!
Life knoweth no like misery; the rest
Are single sorrows, but in this are blended All sweet emotions that disturb the breast; The light that was our loveliest is ended. We might have been!
Henceforth, how much of the full heart must be A sealed book at whose contents we tremble? A still voice mutters mid our misery,
The worst to hear, because it must dissembleWe might have been!
Life is made up of miserable hours,
And all of which we craved a brief possessing, For which we wasted wishes, hopes, and powers, Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing. We might have been!
The future never renders to the past
The young beliefs intrusted to its keeping; Inscribe one sentence-life's first truth and lastOn the pale marble where our dust is sleepingWe might have been!
But no more does that perfume
Threads of gold with curious skill,
In the lone and lovely island Mid the far off southern seas. From the large green leaves escape Clusters of the blooming grape;
Round the shining throne Still the silver fountains play, Singing on through night and day, But they sing alone: Lovely in their early death, No one binds a violet wreath,
In the lone and lovely island Mid the far off southern seas. Love and Fate-ob, fearful pair! Terrible in strength ye are; Until ye had been, Happy as a summer night, Conscious of its own sweet light, Was that Island-queen. Would she could forget to grieve, Or that she could die, and leave
THE WRONGS OF LOVE.
ALAS, how bitter are the wrongs of love! Life has no other sorrow so acute:
For love is made of every fine emotion,
With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise That which it worships; yet is fain to win
The idol to its lone and lowly home
Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck
When such hopes perish. From that moment, life
THE OLD TIMES.
Do you recall what now is living only
Amid the memories garner'd at the heart? The quiet garden, quiet and so lonely,
Where fruit and flowers had each an equal part? When we had gather'd cowslips in the meadow
We used to bear them to the ancient seat,
In the old, old times,
Ne'er was the well o'er whose damp walls were weeping
Stonecrop, and grounsel, and pale yellow flowers, While o'er the banks the strawberry plants were creeping
In the white beauty of June's earliest hours. The currant-bush and lilac grew together;
The bean's sweet breath was blended with the Alike rejoicing in the pleasant weather [rose; That brought the bloom to these, the fruit to those, In the old, old times, The dear old times.
There was no fountain over marble falling;
But the bees murmur'd one perpetual song, Like soothing waters, and the birds were calling Amid the fruit-tree blossoms all day long; Upon the sunny grass-plot stood the dial,
Whose measured time strange contrast with ours Ah! was it omen of life's after trial, [made: That even then the hours were told in shade, In the old, old times, The dear old times?
But little reck'd we then of those sick fancies
With which we wander'd o'er the summer fields; Then did we question of the down-balls blowing
To know if some slight wish would come to pass; If showers we fear'd, we sought where there was
Some weather flower which was our weather glass
Yet my heart warms at these fond recollections,
As little of its bloom as rests with me. Thy only memory is this sad complaining, Mourning that never more for us can be The old, old times, The dear old times.
I LOOK'D upon his brow, no sign
He stood as proud by that death-shrine
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,
The deadliest form that Death could take,
He stood, the fetters on his hand,
And had that grasp been on the brand,
With freer pride than it waved now. Around he look'd with changeless brow On many a torture nigh:
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And worst of all, his own red steel.
I saw him once before; he rode
And tens of thousands throng'd the road
The plume, the helm, the charger, gone;
Came from that lip of pride;
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
A wild shout from the numbers broke