 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
TO ---.
And does my spirit yet retain
Enough of minstrelsy
To breath once more its wonted strain
Of grateful love to thee?
Though silence broods with heavy wing
O'er my neglected lute,
Yet when for thee, love, I would sing,
How can my heart be mute?
Enough of minstrelsy
To breath once more its wonted strain
Of grateful love to thee?
Though silence broods with heavy wing
O'er my neglected lute,
Yet when for thee, love, I would sing,
How can my heart be mute?
By fancy's vague, uncertain ray,
Or memory's lamp alone,
Are seen the shadowy forms that play
Round poesy's far throne;
How, then, may I e'er hope to be
Blessed with a poet's sight?
The chambers of mine imagery
Are filled with earthly light.
Or memory's lamp alone,
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Round poesy's far throne;
How, then, may I e'er hope to be
Blessed with a poet's sight?
The chambers of mine imagery
Are filled with earthly light.
Hope, fancy, memory,—what are they
To one whose heart can find
In every blissful, passing day,
The joys of all combined?
Thou hast fulfilled mine every hope;
The past is nought to me;
And Fancy in her wildest scope
Can bring back nought like thee.
To one whose heart can find
In every blissful, passing day,
The joys of all combined?
Thou hast fulfilled mine every hope;
The past is nought to me;
And Fancy in her wildest scope
Can bring back nought like thee.
The love that once was proudly shrined,
And worshipped with the lyre,
An humbler, happier home can find
Beside our household fire.
He asks not now for minstrel songs
With passion's fervor fraught,
When every word to him belongs,
And every gentle thought.
And worshipped with the lyre,
An humbler, happier home can find
Beside our household fire.
He asks not now for minstrel songs
With passion's fervor fraught,
When every word to him belongs,
And every gentle thought.
I look, beloved, upon thy face,
And tears my fond eyes fill,
No changes there time's hand can trace,
Fadeless in beauty still;
Thy smiles, the sunshine of my heart,
Still o'er me brightly beam,
And, as I watch the years depart,
Life seems a summer dream.
And tears my fond eyes fill,
No changes there time's hand can trace,
Fadeless in beauty still;
Thy smiles, the sunshine of my heart,
Still o'er me brightly beam,
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Life seems a summer dream.
But yet to-night my spirit quails
Before some shadowy fear,
And e'en thy sweet voice, dear one, fails
My drooping soul to cheer;
I listen to the solemn knell
Of the departing year,
As if it were a passing bell
Above some loved one's bier.
Before some shadowy fear,
And e'en thy sweet voice, dear one, fails
My drooping soul to cheer;
I listen to the solemn knell
Of the departing year,
As if it were a passing bell
Above some loved one's bier.
The hand of pain is on my brow,
My spirit's glow is dim;
I cannot meet thee, dearest, now
With love's accustomed hymn;
Yet, trust me, though I cannot greet
With song the opening year,
Ne'er did my heart more warmly beat,
Ne'er wert thou half so dear.
My spirit's glow is dim;
I cannot meet thee, dearest, now
With love's accustomed hymn;
Yet, trust me, though I cannot greet
With song the opening year,
Ne'er did my heart more warmly beat,
Ne'er wert thou half so dear.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |