Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/65

In pathless wilds, where leafy branches bend
Each above each—the busy hum of life
Is never felt—the contest-flag is furled,
And from his foes the wounded deer may hide.

It may not be; I dare not disobey
The trumpet-voice of duty which I hear,
With aching bosom, call me hence away,
And bid me leave thee whom I love so dear.
Therefore farewell—a long farewell—Romance!
We may not meet as we have met before,
For now my leisure hours can be but few.
Yet when we meet what raptures shall there be,
Upon some rare, rare holiday, by chance,
Roving in gardens as I roved of yore
At evening, when the stars begem the blue,
And warbling birds awake to ecstasy.

And if we meet not—if thou shunn'st my sight,
Scared at my world-worn brow and haggard look,
Then shall I woo thee with the charms of might,
And pore intently on some well-loved book —
Well-loved of old, to be well-loved no more—
The varied melody of Shakespeare's shell,
The Doric flute of Milton, or the reed
Of 'sage and serious' Spenser ever dear,
In breathless silence heard so oft before
By thee and me, (thou did'st confess the spell;)
Or what less deep, of late, thou lov'st to hear
The strains of Scott that stir the soul indeed.

If time or care thine image should efface,
The image deeply graven on my brain,
And scenes seem dull which once I loved to trace,
And books, once prized, afford no balm to pain,