Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Dead Lover
THE DEAD LOVER.
Is he then dead, God! and hath he perished
In all his brightness—stricken back to dust!
The high imaginings—the hopes he cherished—
And my mad love—alike an empty trust?
It can not, can not be; look on his brow!
The light of intellect is resting there;
And the calm smile upon his proud lip now,
Hath the same sweetness it was wont to wear.
Oft have I gazed upon his manly face,
And felt my heart throb with a lofty pride
To mark the same expression I now trace,
Of high, pure thoughtfulness; the soul's full tide
Of still but mighty feelings shining through
Each soul-illumined feature; would not Death,
With his damp, icy touch, and blighting dew,
Efface the impress with his first cold breath?
Yet say they, "He is dead!" I may now dare
To lay my hand upon his kingly brow,
And smooth the masses of his jetty hair,
Whose glossy curls have never until now
Threaded my trembling fingers; strange delight!
How my heart burns within its prisoning cell!
And my brain reels, till all around is night—
Would 'twere death's silent and insidious spell!
The brief insensibility is past;
And deeper than before the rankling dart
Pierces its barbed point; oh, shall this last,
And life yet linger in this heaving heart?
Away, away! come ye to tear me hence?
If in his life I dared not tell my love,
Awed into silence by his eloquence,
Leave me alone with him, that I may prove
By my wild grief, how wild, and strong, and deep
Was the revering love I bore for him;
My aching eyes, that burn too much to weep,
With unshed tears must be forever dim;
And this rent heart, torn from its lofty trust,
Must, sad and strengthless, sink again to earth,
And, like its idol, mingle with the dust,
From which it rose in its mysterious birth.
O for a single tone of his deep voice,
To linger ever quivering on my ear!
O for one glance of those dark, earnest eyes
To light the gloom of this now joyless sphere!
But thou art still and silent—thou art dead!
I feel what death is now—voiceless and still;
When the bright spirit from the clay is fled—
And thou art thus—motionless, voiceless, chill!
And we were to be wedded—I thy bride;
And I am thine still, even in the tomb;
Though never more triumphant by thy side,
I feel to my hot cheek the quick blood come.
I know our souls are wedded—but to see
Thy face forever hidden from my sight—
Never to hear thy voice—oh, agony!
Would that my spirit, too, might wing its flight.