Now every hope and fear is past,
And I may weep without restraint;
That gentle voice is hush'd at last,
Which never breath'd the last complaint;
The smile that o'er those features dwelt
In patient sweetness, welcoming
Thy ceaseless pain so deeply felt,
More calmly there is lingering.
Oft when in stillest sleep she doz'd,
I've thought, as now, my love had died;
But then again her eyes unclos'd
On me; and gentle words were sigh'd,
That sunk into my listening soul.-
The fresh bloom, that with health decay'd,
Now back into her face hath stole,
As if to mock my grief and fade.
It cannot be; but when I gaze
On the first loveliness of death:
The lids where still some timid rays
Gleam, as with struggling light beneath :
The waxen cheek now ting'd so slightly:-
The delicate threads, upon her brow,
Of that soft hair seem stirring lightly—
Those lips are surely breathing now.
Ah no! I bend beside thy cheek,
And feel its coldness strike to mine,
Close to thine ear I vainly speak,
And clasp my trembling hand to thine.
My hot tear trickles o'er thy face,
But no faint, gradual movements spread
Waking to life one marble grace.
All tells me coldly, Thou art dead.
Thou! no, my Florence is not here;
Let
grave worms feed upon that bloom; That brow, so delicately clear,
With its blue wandering veins consume;
Let every ring, like palest gold,
Of that fair hair, all dimm'd, decay.
"Tis but the casket we behold,
Our God hath snatch'd the gem away.
Sweet bird! it grieves my very heart
To hear thy notes of joyous thrill,
And find thee, here, a prisoner
A tuft of wither'd grass alone
To recompense the breezy lawn;
A city's foggy atmosphere,
For Phoebus' dawn.
I cannot bear to see thee thrust
Through prison's bars thy crested head,
And hopeless run, from side to side,
With dodging tread.
Thy luxury of song was given
For welkin wide, and dewy heath,
Where Spring leaves on the snow-white thorn Her blush, and breath.
When Nature sought, with grateful heart,
For all her realm a wing, a voice,
To soar, with matin song, to Heaven,
Thou wert her choice.
The careless breeze, that hovers round,
With nought to chain its wandering,
Alone could match, if thou wert free,
Thy sportive wing.
And shaken by thy Heav'nward flight,
When trembling hare-bell's weep with dew,
That voice of rapture scarce betrays
That wing to view.
Calmly thy son, at this still solemn hour,
Recals the trials which our God hath given,
Chastening the soul for the pure joys of Heaven.
He murmurs not; for that Benignant Power,
The guiding star when dark'ning sorrows lower,
Still, as all mortal brightness fades away,
With purer lustre lights thy natal day.
The storm, which on the blossom's fragile bloom
Pours its despoiling fury, oft imparts
New vigour to the root; and thus the gloom,
The tempests of affliction, from our hearts
Rending the bloom of folly, may restore
The growth of virtues, which had droop'd before.
March the 11th, 1819,
at Midnight.
|