There are the flowers that have withered away,
And the hopes that have faded,—like fairies at play, And the eyes that are dimmed, and the smiles that are
And thou too art there!--but thou still art mine own;
Fair as in childhood, and fond as in youth,
Thou-only thou-wert a spirit of truth!
Time hath been o'er thee, and darkened thine eye,
And thoughts are within thee more holy and high;
Sadder thy smile than in days that are o'er,
And lovelier all that was lovely before;
That which thou wert is not that which thou art,
Thou too art altered in all-but in heart!
Lie on my bosom, and lead me along
Over lost scenes, by the magic of song!
What if I weep at the vision of years?
Sighs are not sorrow,-and joy has her tears!
Sad is my brow, as thy music is sad,
But oh! it is long since my heart was so glad!
All that is left of life's promise is here,-
Thou, my young idol, in sorrow more dear!
But thy murmurs remind me of many away,
And though I am glad, love! I cannot be
All has departed that offered like truth,
Save thou-only thou,-and the song of my youth!
AFTER A PICTURE OF A GIRL, NEWLY AWAKENED, AND IN A MUSING ATTITUDE.
SHE has been dreaming!—and her thoughts are, still,
On their far journey in the land of dreams!
The forms we call-but may not chase
And soft, low voices,-sweet as distant streams,
Heard in the night-hush,-linger round her heart!
Oh, dark-eyed dreamer! must thy spirit sail
Into the years when dreams of joy depart,
With each bright morning,-like the nightingale!
When hope is only for the slumbering hours,
A thing on which the waker thinks-and
And pleasant fancies-like night-blowing flowers,Give out their perfume but while memory sleeps!Thine is the precious privilege of youth,
That paints all visions in the hues of truth!
OH! that the Spirit of thy votive song
Would pour her Sibyl oracles along,
Go forth where despots sway, and dastards yield,
And rouse a tented Israel to the field!
-Oh! for the mystic harp of Kedron's vale,
To fling its music on the tameless gale!
As erst, in Israel, when, at God's command,
Saul was sent forth to blight the chartered land,
When Siloa's brook was gathered to a flood,
And Sion wept-till every tear was blood!
Oh! for a spell-like her's who called the dead,
And brought the prophet from his dreamless bed,—
To wake the spirit of the martyred brave,
And break the slumber of Riego's grave!
-Oh! for the warrior-youth of Judah's line,
Divinely missioned to a work divine,—
A David to "go up"-with staff and sling,
And pebbles for the forehead of a king,-
And, in the spirit of a holy wrath,
Smite the Goliath of a sceptered Gath!
Alas, the lovely land!-where fetters bind
All but the sighs their captives give the wind!
Where life is stagnant-but when stirred by fears,
And patriots have no weapons-but their tears!
Where the free breezes and the dancing waves
Utter vain language to a world of slaves;
And hope-a" fitful fever"-wakes and dies,
Like clouds that form-to melt--in Spanish skies!
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