 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
227
STANZAS
ON THE DEATH OF MISS CLINCH, BETTER KNOWN AS “THYRZA.”
I never looked upon thy face,
I know not whether it was fair,
Or whether mind alone had set
The glorious impress there;
Thy form has never met mine eye
Amid the passing crowd,
Yet few can feel as I do now
To know thee in thy shroud.
I know not whether it was fair,
Or whether mind alone had set
The glorious impress there;
Thy form has never met mine eye
Amid the passing crowd,
Yet few can feel as I do now
To know thee in thy shroud.
No tone from thy young lip that came
Has ever dwelt upon mine ear,
And yet how oft my heart has thrilled
Thy spirit's voice to hear;
For thou wert one to whom was given
The minstrel's holy power,
The power to commune with our thoughts
E'en in the lonely hour.
Has ever dwelt upon mine ear,
And yet how oft my heart has thrilled
Thy spirit's voice to hear;
For thou wert one to whom was given
The minstrel's holy power,
The power to commune with our thoughts
E'en in the lonely hour.
I knew that thou wert young, for ne'er
The worn and world-seared soul may know
Such visitings of fancy's light
As in thy sweet strains glow;
And well I knew the priceless gift
Of intellect was thine,
E'en though mine eyes ne'er gazed upon
Thy spirit's earthly shrine.
The worn and world-seared soul may know
Such visitings of fancy's light
As in thy sweet strains glow;
And well I knew the priceless gift
Of intellect was thine,
E'en though mine eyes ne'er gazed upon
Thy spirit's earthly shrine.
228
Surely it is no marvel then
That I should mourn thy early doom,
And pour a passing stranger's wail
Above thy lowly tomb;
Thou wert of those high-gifted ones
Who to the world belong,
For not alone the social hearth
May claim the child of song.
That I should mourn thy early doom,
And pour a passing stranger's wail
Above thy lowly tomb;
Thou wert of those high-gifted ones
Who to the world belong,
For not alone the social hearth
May claim the child of song.
Farewell, young minstrel, thou hast shunned
Perchance a darker, sterner fate,
For rarely does a thornless path
The steps of genius wait;
The finer faculties of mind
That to the bard are given,
Forbid his heart to find its rest
Beneath its native heaven.
Perchance a darker, sterner fate,
For rarely does a thornless path
The steps of genius wait;
The finer faculties of mind
That to the bard are given,
Forbid his heart to find its rest
Beneath its native heaven.
Farewell, though thou wert snatched away
Too soon to win undying fame,
Yet many a gentle thought shall wait,
Young minstrel, on thy name;
And while beloved ones weep thy doom
With many a fruitless tear,
A stranger's hand would fling its wreath
Or wild flowers on thy bier.
Too soon to win undying fame,
Yet many a gentle thought shall wait,
Young minstrel, on thy name;
And while beloved ones weep thy doom
With many a fruitless tear,
A stranger's hand would fling its wreath
Or wild flowers on thy bier.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |