Alas, to think of this!—the heart's void place
Filled up so soon!—so like a summer-cloud
All that we loved to pass, and leave no trace!—
He lay forgotten in his early shroud—
Forgotten?—not of all! The sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks whose breezy wavings threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Amidst that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle—these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day.
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing;
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
From pictured windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love—a secret love and lowly,
And the rose, image all things fleet and fair,
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1826.pdf/7
