188
POEMS.
The cup of woe to its dregs men drink
Yet from the cold, damp grave they shrink—
Thy requiem, Hope, must first be sung
Ere this fearful prayer escape the tongue!
Yet from the cold, damp grave they shrink—
Thy requiem, Hope, must first be sung
Ere this fearful prayer escape the tongue!
The generous Imri sees her tears,
With pity her sad moaning hears;
A charm to chase her grief he sought,
And gems to win her love are bought;
She heeds them not, but paler grows
Her downy cheek, where bloomed the rose;
Despair sits brooding at her heart,
Well pleased she feels life's strong links part.
With pity her sad moaning hears;
A charm to chase her grief he sought,
And gems to win her love are bought;
She heeds them not, but paler grows
Her downy cheek, where bloomed the rose;
Despair sits brooding at her heart,
Well pleased she feels life's strong links part.
Yet, she was young to die—
Had earth no joy for her?
No holy task, no mission high?
These thoughts her bosom stir.
Such deep soul-yearnings, with kind Heaven have power,
And though no words her trembling lips have spoken,
She formed a purpose, and in prosperous hour
The gilded cage this captive bird hath broken.
Had earth no joy for her?
No holy task, no mission high?
These thoughts her bosom stir.
Such deep soul-yearnings, with kind Heaven have power,
And though no words her trembling lips have spoken,
She formed a purpose, and in prosperous hour
The gilded cage this captive bird hath broken.
By patient toil, a pittance now she gains,
And finds a secret joy in all her pains;
And finds a secret joy in all her pains;
