I saw my mother's dying bed, I heard her bless me, and I shed Cool tears, -but, lo! the ghastly dead Stared me to madness, Rosaline ! And then, amid the silent night, I screamed with horrible delight, And in my brain an awful light store in Did seem to crackle, Rosaline ! It is my curse! sweet memories fall From me like snow, - and only all Of that one night, like cold worms, crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline! Thine eyes are shut: they never more To tell the secret o'er and o'er Thou couldst not smother, Rosaline ! Thine eyes are shut; they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine Thy voice I never more shall hear, That, ere it trembled in mine ear, My quick heart heard it, Rosaline ! 'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline ! Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate more bitter, Rosaline? Woe 's me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in churchyard lie,— Would it might be so, Rosaline! ALLEGRA. I WOULD more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before, — Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store. Thou canst not see a shade in life; With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife, Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth; Some influence more gay than ours Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal-stars were flowers That shook their seeds round thee on earth. And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child ; All pleasant winds from south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled. Thine every fancy seems to borrow A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow, A hope-lit rainbow out of tears, Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, Though 'yond to-day it never peers. |