 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
323
BYRON'S FAREWELL.
Sweet Mary! I have looked again
Upon thy speaking face,
And only did the wreck remain
Of former bloom and grace;
A fearful blight was on the rose
That once thy beauty wore;
Pale token that within had froze
Joy's fount, to flow no more.
Upon thy speaking face,
And only did the wreck remain
Of former bloom and grace;
A fearful blight was on the rose
That once thy beauty wore;
Pale token that within had froze
Joy's fount, to flow no more.
The babe that nestled in mine arms
And sported on my knee,
Inherited those matchless charms
Once prized so much in thee;
And boyhood, with the sunny tress,
That bounded through the door,
Woke a drear sense of loneliness,
A thought that all was o'er.
And sported on my knee,
Inherited those matchless charms
Once prized so much in thee;
And boyhood, with the sunny tress,
That bounded through the door,
Woke a drear sense of loneliness,
A thought that all was o'er.
Why am I sad? The light is gone
That cheered my darkened way;
The star, when night was coming on,
That turned my gloom to day:
We parted, and no tear was shed,
For love's wild dream was o'er;
I think of thee as of the dead;
Lost, lost for evermore!
That cheered my darkened way;
The star, when night was coming on,
That turned my gloom to day:
We parted, and no tear was shed,
For love's wild dream was o'er;
I think of thee as of the dead;
Lost, lost for evermore!
My soul retains thine image yet,
Though bliss is in the grave;
As splendor falls, when the sun is set,
On purpling wood and wave;
For perished joy I will not weep,
Affection crushed deplore,
Though memory in mourning deep
Is clad for evermore.
Though bliss is in the grave;
As splendor falls, when the sun is set,
On purpling wood and wave;
324
Affection crushed deplore,
Though memory in mourning deep
Is clad for evermore.
Thine was a witchery of mien
That found its type in charms
By the painter drawn of Love's own queen
Springing from Ocean's arms;
And siren music, that ensnared
Frail barks, though far from shore,
Was discord, to the voice compared
That I must hear no more.
That found its type in charms
By the painter drawn of Love's own queen
Springing from Ocean's arms;
And siren music, that ensnared
Frail barks, though far from shore,
Was discord, to the voice compared
That I must hear no more.
A face of pensive sweetness long
Will haunt my troubled dreams,
When couched, in the mystic land of song,
On banks of golden streams:
I gazed on thee as Tasso gazed
On high-born Leonor,
And like the bard, by passion crazed,
Must hope for peace no more.
Will haunt my troubled dreams,
When couched, in the mystic land of song,
On banks of golden streams:
I gazed on thee as Tasso gazed
On high-born Leonor,
And like the bard, by passion crazed,
Must hope for peace no more.
My sail is flapping in the bay,
The breakers foam and roll,
And airy voices shout “Away!
Away! poor troubled soul!
The wine-cup cannot waken mirth,
An Eden lost restore;
Away, away! on English earth
Thy feet must tread no more!”
The breakers foam and roll,
And airy voices shout “Away!
Away! poor troubled soul!
The wine-cup cannot waken mirth,
An Eden lost restore;
Away, away! on English earth
Thy feet must tread no more!”
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |