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Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
of woe for me to drain. If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again ; But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me—too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven: On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heaven!
Away, away, ye notes of woe !
Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days—
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; And now their softest notes repeat
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony
Is worse than discord to my heart !
'Tis silent all!—but on my ear
The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still, Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake:
Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray
That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.
ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more ?
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou’rt nothing, all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o’er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
The heart-the heart is lonely still !
On many a lone and lovely night
It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “ Now Thyrza gazes on that moon
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, “ 'Tis comfort still,” I faintly said,
" That Thyrza cannot know my pains :”