Time cannot blot.
[William Holmes.—Here first printed.]
Time cannot blot from memory's book
The record of those tender ties,
Sprung from that first and silent look
Of ours into each other's eyes.
Yet neither of us read aright
The language of each other's heart,
Or thou would'st not my passion slight,
Nor I be grieved from thee to part.
I dream't, while gazing on thy face,
A soul was beaming on thy smile;
Alas! it was a maiden grace
My fancy furnished all the while.
'Tis ever thus that love is blind:
My heart, though open to thy view,
Seem'd but a picture, which thy mind
Of its own icy coldness drew.
Farewell, farewell!—still thou wilt seem
Unchang'd till my life's latest even;
The image of a blessed dream,
That gave to earth the light of heaven.