A Bridal Dirge Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 1051 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. Thomas Moore [1779-1852] "AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT” At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. A BRIDAL DIRGE WEAVE no more the marriage chain! All unmated is the lover; Life and years of hope are over! No more want of marriage bell! Gone-with all the love he gave her! Paler than the stone she lies: Colder than the winter's morning! Wherefore did she thus despise (She with pity in her eyes) Mother's care, and lover's warning? Youth and beauty,-shall they not Last beyond a brief to-morrow? No: a prayer and then forgot! This the truest lover's lot; This the sum of human sorrow! Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] "OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM" OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: And oft by yon blue gushing stream Away! we know that tears are vain, George Gordon Byron [1788–1824] IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed And thou shouldst smile no more! My Heart and I And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, But when I speak-thou dost not say Sweet Mary, thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart Yet there was round thee such a dawn As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! 1053 Charles Wolfe [1791-1823] MY HEART AND I ENOUGH! We're tired, my heart and I. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, You see we're tired, my heart and I. As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I. How tired we feel, my heart and I! Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I? So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. "Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head. 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm Tired out we are, my heart and I. Yet who complains? My heart and I? Rosalind's Scroll Disdain them, break them, throw them by! 1055 Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] ROSALIND'S SCROLL From "The Poet's Vow" I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, I tell thee that my poor scorned heart But out, alas! these words are writ Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life, I have prayed for thee with bursting sob I have prayed for thee with silent lips |