THE DEAD LOVER.
Is he then dead, God! and hath he perished
In all his brightness—stricken back to dust!
The high imaginings—the hopes he cherished—
And my mad love—alike an empty trust?
It can not, can not be; look on his brow!
The light of intellect is resting there;
And the calm smile upon his proud lip now,
Hath the same sweetness it was wont to wear.
Oft have I gazed upon his manly face,
And felt my heart throb with a lofty pride
To mark the same expression I now trace,
Of high, pure thoughtfulness; the soul's full tide
Of still but mighty feelings shining through
Each soul-illumined feature; would not Death,
With his damp, icy touch, and blighting dew,
Efface the impress with his first cold breath?
Yet say they, "He is dead!" I may now dare
To lay my hand upon his kingly brow,
And smooth the masses of his jetty hair,
Whose glossy curls have never until now
Threaded my trembling fingers; strange delight!
How my heart burns within its prisoning cell!
And my brain reels, till all around is night—
Would 'twere death's silent and insidious spell!
The brief insensibility is past;
And deeper than before the rankling dart
Pierces its barbed point; oh, shall this last,
And life yet linger in this heaving heart?
