LAIS. I TELL thee, death were far more merciful YES, they have said the fatal word That bids us tread this earth apart, Crushed every hope that life endeared, They bid me on another smile, They bid me breathe another's name, But oh! they know not that the while "Tis fuel added to the flame. To thee, I'll ever constant prove, Forever they may part us here, Between us place the boundless sea, It will but render thee more dear They cannot tear my heart from thee! With roses they may wreathe my brow, And wring from me the nuptial vow, But when a few brief days have past, And they to greet me hither come, And find my brow with grief o'ercast, And shadows dwelling in my home Ah! then they'll watch my silent wo, My fading cheek, and wasting form, And glittering pomp around me throw, But find it hath for me no charm;— And speak kind words-but speak in vain, But hot tears stealing from mine eye, II. MY LOVE FOR THEE. A SONG. My love for thee was not of earth, 'Twas fraught with that celestial zeal, That ne'er in coarser souls hath birth, That none but heavenward spirits feel; It flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. It filled my mind with purer themes, My lute inspired with sweeter tone; And flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell It shed below a holier light Than ever sun or star hath given, It rent the films that veiled my sight, Forever linked my thoughts with heaven; And flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. Ask not, alas! whence is this gloom, This dark cloud on my brow, Why fadeth thus my cheek's fresh bloom, Ask not, dear friend, why steal the tears In silence from mine eye, Why anguish in my look appears, Or why so oft I sigh ; For there are woes too deep for speech, Feelings too finely strung For human sympathy to reach, Sorrows that have no tongue. IV. THE HEART'S WORST PANG. It is a wo beyond all other woes, A canker over which the heart may close, But cannot heal. A gnawing worm, whose tooth Where only spring the weeds of bitterness— Whose sparkling draughts, alas! we dare not taste! In all her catalogue of suffering: An eating rust-the spirit's direst pain, To love-adore-and be beloved again, Yet know between us lies a gulf that ever |