 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
299
LETHE
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
I
Love once sat by a willow shade,That grew by a fabled river;
His bow unstrung, by his side he laid,
And hung up his classic quiver.
Love then cried;
“Ye who 've sighed,
For passion unrequited—
In this flood
Love's young bud,
Plunged—is ever blighted!”
II
There came a maid to the willow shade,Her heart with passion swelling;
A hopeless love on her sweet cheek preyed,
In her breast a deep grief dwelling.
But, oh, think!
On the brink,
Lingered that sad daughter;
While her fair
Graces rare,
Mirrored back the water.
III
From her cheeks she parts each tress,Proudly back she threw them;
Crimson tints her cheeks confess,
As she paused to view them.
300
One so sweet,
In that gloomy river—
Plunge for love?
Saints above!
Ugh! It makes me shiver!”
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |