Page images


Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her breath hath lost all its faint perfume,
And the gloss hath dropped from her auburn hair.
And her forehead is pale—though no longer fair.

And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye.
Is struck with cold—mortality;
And the smile that played on her lip hath fled
And every grace hath now left the dead!

Like slaves they obeyed her, in height of power,
But left her all—in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrank from the tone of her last sad sigh;
And this is man's fidelity!

'Tis woman alone, with a finer heart,
Can see all those idols of life depart;
And love the more—and soothe and bless
Man in his utter wretchedness!



Those few pale Autumn flowers.
How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!

And why ?—they are the last!
The last ! the last! the last!
Oh! by that little word,
How many thoughts are stirred,
That sister of the past!

Pale flowers,—pale perishing flowers!
Ye're types of precious things
Types of those better moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,

On rapid—rapid wings.

Last hours with parting dear ones
That time the fastest spends,


Last tears in silence shed,
Last words—half uttered,

Last looks of dying friends.

Who but would fain compress
A life into a day;
The last day spent with one,
Who, ere the morrow's sun,

Must leave us—and for aye?

Oh! precious, precious moments,
Pale flowers! ye're types of those
The saddest—sweetest—dearest—
Because, like those, the nearest
To an eternal close.

Pale flowers—pale perishing flowers,
I woo your gentle breath;
I leave the summer rose,
For younger—blither brows;

Tell me of change and death !—


Has sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded

That even in sorrow were sweet!
Does time with his cold wing wither

Each feeling that once was dear?
Then child of misfortune come hither,

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul so tender

Been like our. Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour

All over the surface shine?
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,

Like love, the bright one is gone.

Has hope, like the bird in the story,

That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory,

Has hope been that bird to thee?

On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,

And when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted

When sorrow herself looked bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,

That led thee along so light:
If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dear,
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,

I'll weep with thee tear for tear.



Then whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,

I think of the pleasures of other days;

And the faces, and forms, so sadly dear,

And the words I have heard—but no more can hear:

And the tales that can never again be told,

And the pressure of hands—that now are cold

« PreviousContinue »