 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
279
STANZAS.
Mournfully my spirit turns
To dreams of olden time,
And oft my heart within me burns
When I hear some old-world rhyme;
And ever has Poesy been to me
The Atlantis of Time's wide sea;
I have steered full often my weary bark
For that green isle on the waters dark;
But never my foot might press its shore,
And I turn to actual life once more
Mournfully, O, mournfully!
To dreams of olden time,
And oft my heart within me burns
When I hear some old-world rhyme;
And ever has Poesy been to me
The Atlantis of Time's wide sea;
I have steered full often my weary bark
For that green isle on the waters dark;
But never my foot might press its shore,
And I turn to actual life once more
Mournfully, O, mournfully!
Mournfully doth my bosom pine
For the fantasies of youth;
And I would that fancy now could shine
With a light like that of truth;
I would lift my worldly laden thought
To the realms with so much beauty fraught,
I would catch again the glorious gleam
That filled my soul with its heavenly beam
Ere my earthly hopes and earthly fears
Brought my feelings back to this vale of tears,
Mournfully, O, mournfully!
For the fantasies of youth;
And I would that fancy now could shine
With a light like that of truth;
I would lift my worldly laden thought
To the realms with so much beauty fraught,
I would catch again the glorious gleam
That filled my soul with its heavenly beam
Ere my earthly hopes and earthly fears
Brought my feelings back to this vale of tears,
Mournfully, O, mournfully!
Mournfully do my tear-drops fall
On the poet's pictured page,
And fain would I the dreams recall
That gladdened life's golden age;
But I bartered those treasures long, long ago,
For happiness such as few can know,
Nor would I recall the feverish past,
With its wild unrest and its pang at last;
Yet the voice of song has a magic still,
And its gentle tones can my spirit thrill,
Mournfully, O, mournfully!
On the poet's pictured page,
And fain would I the dreams recall
That gladdened life's golden age;
280
For happiness such as few can know,
Nor would I recall the feverish past,
With its wild unrest and its pang at last;
Yet the voice of song has a magic still,
And its gentle tones can my spirit thrill,
Mournfully, O, mournfully!
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |