a lament.
131
Thy blue eye is dim, there is dust on thy brow,
The rose hue of life, it hath faded away;
How peacefully dear one thou slumberest now,
Nought, nought can awake thee,—nor darkness, nor day:
The heart that was beating with kindness alone,
Is still—all its throbbings for ever are o'er,
And the voice that we loved for its sweetness of tone,
Alas! we may list to its music no more.
The rose hue of life, it hath faded away;
How peacefully dear one thou slumberest now,
Nought, nought can awake thee,—nor darkness, nor day:
The heart that was beating with kindness alone,
Is still—all its throbbings for ever are o'er,
And the voice that we loved for its sweetness of tone,
Alas! we may list to its music no more.
How short was thy sojourn, how brief was thy stay,
A summer of beauty, a season of love—
Bright forms that we knew not have called thee away,
And wings that we heard not, have borne thee above:
Thou wert snatched from the sorrows that haply may throw
Their withering blight over life's riper years;
And in regions immortal, thou never can'st know
The heart's weary pining, the eye's bitter tears.
A summer of beauty, a season of love—
Bright forms that we knew not have called thee away,
And wings that we heard not, have borne thee above:
Thou wert snatched from the sorrows that haply may throw
Their withering blight over life's riper years;
And in regions immortal, thou never can'st know
The heart's weary pining, the eye's bitter tears.
And gladly the springtime shall waken the flowers,
And summer clothe brightly with blossoms each tree;
But the joy of the sunbeams, the calm of the hours,
Will come not again gentle sleeper to thee:
And summer clothe brightly with blossoms each tree;
But the joy of the sunbeams, the calm of the hours,
Will come not again gentle sleeper to thee:
