THE POETESS.
275
They whispered—and their thrilling tones
Awoke a thousand echoes there,
And painted fancy's loveliest ones,
Of calm, of beautiful, of fair.
They whispered, and their tones were heard,
Like fragrant breath of summer-flowers,
Prom their deep sleep of silence stirred
By evening's sighs and golden showers.
Awoke a thousand echoes there,
And painted fancy's loveliest ones,
Of calm, of beautiful, of fair.
They whispered, and their tones were heard,
Like fragrant breath of summer-flowers,
Prom their deep sleep of silence stirred
By evening's sighs and golden showers.
But those sighs fainted like the sound
Of bright waves murmuring on the shore,
And those fair showers were shed around,
To gleam a moment and no more;
Like memories of bright forms that by
Us stand, from which we grieved to part,
Dim shadows stand before the eye,
Sad voices linger in the heart.
Of bright waves murmuring on the shore,
And those fair showers were shed around,
To gleam a moment and no more;
Like memories of bright forms that by
Us stand, from which we grieved to part,
Dim shadows stand before the eye,
Sad voices linger in the heart.
Child of the past! a fearful chain
Is round thy heart, that will not break;
Though like a bird it strive in vain
Its gloomy prison to forsake.
The past! thy dwelling is the past,
Its spell around thy heart is thrown,
Its chain is round thy being cast;
In vain thou strugglest thus alone!
Is round thy heart, that will not break;
Though like a bird it strive in vain
Its gloomy prison to forsake.
The past! thy dwelling is the past,
Its spell around thy heart is thrown,
Its chain is round thy being cast;
In vain thou strugglest thus alone!
Heir of deep feelings and lone tears!
A fearful heritage is thine;
The buried fires of long, long years
Are burning in thy bosom's shrine;
A fearful heritage is thine;
The buried fires of long, long years
Are burning in thy bosom's shrine;
