 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
LINES TO A FRIEND.
Like that sweet melody which faintly lingers
Upon the wind-harp's strings at closes of day,
When, gently touched by Evening's dewy fingers,
It breathes a low and melancholy lay,—
Upon the wind-harp's strings at closes of day,
When, gently touched by Evening's dewy fingers,
It breathes a low and melancholy lay,—
So thy calm voice of sympathy meseemeth,
And, while its magic spell is round me cast,
My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth,
And vaguely blends the future with the past.
And, while its magic spell is round me cast,
My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth,
And vaguely blends the future with the past.
But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth
And mournful memories around me move,
E'en friendship's alchemy no balm distilleth
To soothe the immedicable wound of love.
And mournful memories around me move,
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To soothe the immedicable wound of love.
O, well thou knowest this truth, for thou hast tasted
The draught which leaves such bitterness behind;
Thou e'en in life's glad spring hast idly wasted
Feeling's sweet perfume on the unconscious wind.
The draught which leaves such bitterness behind;
Thou e'en in life's glad spring hast idly wasted
Feeling's sweet perfume on the unconscious wind.
Alas! alas! passion too soon exhaleth
The dewy freshness of the heart's young flowers;
We water them with tears—but nought availeth,
They wither on through all life's later hours.
The dewy freshness of the heart's young flowers;
We water them with tears—but nought availeth,
They wither on through all life's later hours.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |