miscellaneous poems.
77
From thee, beloved, to sever! oh, must I feel this grief?
Is there no healing balm, no hope of a relief?
Thy voice at midnight hour, thro' restless dreams I hear,—
How blest if that deep loving voice once more might meet mine ear.
Is there no healing balm, no hope of a relief?
Thy voice at midnight hour, thro' restless dreams I hear,—
How blest if that deep loving voice once more might meet mine ear.
I would not that thy memory should dwell on this sad hour!
No; think of me when pleasure calls each votary to her bower;—
In thine hours of mirth and gladness, when music floats around,
Think, then, thou hearest the lov'd one's voice in every gentle sound.
No; think of me when pleasure calls each votary to her bower;—
In thine hours of mirth and gladness, when music floats around,
Think, then, thou hearest the lov'd one's voice in every gentle sound.
Cherish her memory fondly! oh! was she not to thee
A dream of joy, a being full of love and constancy?
Upon this earth, beloved, once—only once, we find
Soul meeting soul!—yet must we die! this bitter truth I find.
A dream of joy, a being full of love and constancy?
Upon this earth, beloved, once—only once, we find
Soul meeting soul!—yet must we die! this bitter truth I find.
