 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
173
THOUGH THY DREAR WORDS.
“The roses of my spirit, as well as of my cheeks are fled, and I fear, my friend, that the few pale flowers which are still lingering in the garden of my youth would soon become scentless and tasteless to you.”
Stella.
Though thy drear words are fraught with solemn truth,
And the soft light of thy dark eye is waning—
Though roses in the garden of thy youth,
Like mourners, few and frost-bleached, are remaining—
My heart with deep affection to its core
Will thrill whenever thy sweet name is spoken,
And love thee till its pulse can throb no more,
And its frail chords are tuneless, stilled and broken.
And the soft light of thy dark eye is waning—
Though roses in the garden of thy youth,
Like mourners, few and frost-bleached, are remaining—
My heart with deep affection to its core
Will thrill whenever thy sweet name is spoken,
And love thee till its pulse can throb no more,
And its frail chords are tuneless, stilled and broken.
Think not that maid of more enticing mien—
Of lip more red, and darker, richer tresses,
Though in the jewelled drapery of a queen
Her form of Phidian witchery she dresses,
Will teach me falsehood by her potent wiles,
And the fond ties that knit our souls dissever,
Or, with the dazzling radiance of her smiles,
Dim Stella's image in my bosom ever.
Of lip more red, and darker, richer tresses,
Though in the jewelled drapery of a queen
Her form of Phidian witchery she dresses,
Will teach me falsehood by her potent wiles,
And the fond ties that knit our souls dissever,
Or, with the dazzling radiance of her smiles,
Dim Stella's image in my bosom ever.
Though pain and sorrow on thy forehead fair
Have left their deep and melancholy traces,
I prize thy pensive mournfulness of air
Far more than joys that kindle happier faces.
I think of thee when Night is on her throne,
And Dian in her car of pearl is riding,
And when I wander in the woods alone
Thy sylph-like figure in my path seems gliding.
Have left their deep and melancholy traces,
I prize thy pensive mournfulness of air
Far more than joys that kindle happier faces.
I think of thee when Night is on her throne,
And Dian in her car of pearl is riding,
And when I wander in the woods alone
Thy sylph-like figure in my path seems gliding.
174
The wild, inconstant bird our northern bowers
Forsakes, when winds are chill and leaves are dying;
In quest of lands where ever blush the flowers
Across the blue and briny waters flying:—
Unlike that bird from thee I will not fly
When the brief summer of thy bloom is ended,
And with the tints of life a deadlier dye,
That whispers of the winding-sheet, is blended.
Forsakes, when winds are chill and leaves are dying;
In quest of lands where ever blush the flowers
Across the blue and briny waters flying:—
Unlike that bird from thee I will not fly
When the brief summer of thy bloom is ended,
And with the tints of life a deadlier dye,
That whispers of the winding-sheet, is blended.
Ah! if it be thy destiny to lie
In the cold hall of dreamless rest before me,
My tears, until the fount of grief is dry,
Will 'dew the funeral turf that blossoms o'er thee:
Nor will I worship, with adoring gaze,
Some dawning orb of loveliness, forgetting
The lost, extinguished star of other days
That flung on me its latest beam while setting.
In the cold hall of dreamless rest before me,
My tears, until the fount of grief is dry,
Will 'dew the funeral turf that blossoms o'er thee:
Nor will I worship, with adoring gaze,
Some dawning orb of loveliness, forgetting
The lost, extinguished star of other days
That flung on me its latest beam while setting.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |