When thou wast bright as morning's opening flowers Bright genius flashed, and hope's sweet fantasies, And holy thought, and dreams of earthly bliss Each feature kindled into loveliness. And I have seen thee in the gorgeous hall, The cynosure of the gay festival; That snowy brow with rosy chaplets bound, But oh, how changed! it breathes no more of streams, And groves, and fairy sprites, and youth's bright dreams; Love's doleful requiem, hope's funeral knell, Are now the only music of thy shell. That mien is sad, those cheeks are pale with care Ah! bitter tears and sorrow have been there Those eyes now tell a dark and mournful tale Time hath not on that brow etched many years, When hope and love no more our path illume, With patience life's inevitable fate. Thy grief is deeper far than speech portrays, So much of meekness, and of purity, And chastened thought, and sacred fantasy Are there, and Poesy's undying fire, That thrill my soul, and lofty thoughts inspire; And though from thee life's brightest spells have fled, Love's halo circles not the false one's head; Still genius holds her seat upon that brow, Lighting those pale and wasting features now, As the sun's pure and ever-constant light Lends beauty to the sorrowing moon by night. |