Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 2/The Mossy Seat

THE MOSSY SEAT.

The landscape hath not lost its look;
Still rushes on the sparkling river;
Nor hath the gloominess forsook
These granite crags that frown for ever,
Still hangs around the shadowy wood,
Whose sounds but murmur solitude:
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's coo, in grief repining,
In mingled echoes steal along:
The setting sun is brightly shining;
And clouds above, and hills below,
Are brightening with his golden glow.

It is not meet—it is not fit—
Though Fortune all our hopes hath thwarted,
While on the very stone I sit
Where first we met, and last we parted,

That absent from my mind should be
The thought that loves and looks to thee!
Each happy hour that we have proved,
While love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our progress tended—
Still brings my mind a soft relief,
And bids it love the joys of grief!

What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest, and now is broken!
I cannot—Oh! hast thou forgot
Our early loves—this hallowed spot!
I almost think I see thee stand;
I almost dream I hear thee speaking;
I feel the pressure of thy hand;
Thy living glance in fondness seeking—
Here all apart—by all unseen—
Thy form upon my arm to lean!

Tho' beauty bless the landscape still,
Tho' woods surround, and waters lave it,
My heart feels not the vivid thrill,
Which long ago thy presence gave it;
Mirth, music, friendship, have no tone
Like that, which with thy voice hath flown!
And Memory only now remains,
To whisper things that once delighted:
Still—still I love to tread these plains,
To seek this sacred haunt benighted,
And feel a something, sadly sweet,
In resting on this mossy seat.