No—thou art the victor, Death!
Thou comest—and where is that which spoke
From the depths of the eye, when the bright soul woke?
—Gone with the flitting breath!
Thou comest—and what is left
Of all that loved us, to say if aught
Yet loves, yet answers the burning thought
Of the spirit lorn and reft?
Silence is where thou art!
Silently thou must kindred meet;
No glance to cheer, and no voice to greet;
No bounding of heart to heart!
Boast not thy victory, Death!
It is but as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power—
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower,
That slumber, the snow beneath.
It is but as a tyrant's reign
O'er the look and the voice, which he bids be still:
—But the sleepless thought and the fiery will
Are not for him to chain.
They shall soar his might above!
And so with the root whence affection springs,
Though buried, it is not of mortal things
Thou art the victor, Love!
Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 27 1830.pdf/3
