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 | ||