Page:The Garland 1839.pdf/4

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A passion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way.

But thou, the while—oh! almost strange,
    Mine imaged self! it seems
That on thy brow of peace no change
    Reflects my own swift dreams;
Almost I marvel not to trace
Those lights and shadows in thy face.

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep,
    Affection—Memory—Grief—
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sleep
    O'er a frail aspen-leaf!
Oh! that the quiet of thine eye
Might sink there when the storm goes by!

Yet look thou still serenely on,
    And if sweet friends there be,
That when my song and soul are gone
    Shall seek my form in thee,
Tell them of One for whom 'twas best
To flee away and be at rest!