 | Poems |  |
157
TO M---.
They told me thou wert beautiful—that on thy fair young face,
A poet's wish, a lover's dream might find their resting-place.
And well indeed the bud that bloomed so bright in early Spring,
Bore promise of a fairer flower, that summer suns would bring—
Yet not so sweet in form and hue, all unprofaned by art,
(Though these alone might well suffice to move the coldest heart,)
As that, in goodness—gentleness—and purity alone,
'Tis radiant as the angels' are, before the Eternal Throne.
Long have I cherished Loveliness—yet never knew till now,
How deeply this adoring heart before its shrine could bow.
A poet's wish, a lover's dream might find their resting-place.
And well indeed the bud that bloomed so bright in early Spring,
Bore promise of a fairer flower, that summer suns would bring—
Yet not so sweet in form and hue, all unprofaned by art,
(Though these alone might well suffice to move the coldest heart,)
As that, in goodness—gentleness—and purity alone,
'Tis radiant as the angels' are, before the Eternal Throne.
158
How deeply this adoring heart before its shrine could bow.
And they said thy voice was music—and that I knew full well—
Though years had passed, since on my heart its gentle accents fell!
That voice, to whose endearing tones I listened long before,
And, having heard those accents once, could never lose it more.
'Twas like some old forgotten song, yet once to memory dear—
Some long-lost strain of music, familiar to mine ear.
And as its tones were heard once more, what nameless thoughts were stirred—
What memories from their slumber awoke at every word—
What tender visions once again across Life's desert stole,
And Hopes and Fears, a countless throng, came mingling o'er the soul.
Though years had passed, since on my heart its gentle accents fell!
That voice, to whose endearing tones I listened long before,
And, having heard those accents once, could never lose it more.
'Twas like some old forgotten song, yet once to memory dear—
Some long-lost strain of music, familiar to mine ear.
And as its tones were heard once more, what nameless thoughts were stirred—
What memories from their slumber awoke at every word—
What tender visions once again across Life's desert stole,
And Hopes and Fears, a countless throng, came mingling o'er the soul.
159
And yet I cannot envy him, who ne'er hath felt the same;
Whose heart has thrilled not at the sound of one beloved Name;
Whose pulse hath never quickened at the footstep, or the tone
Of one, whose every hope and thought are dearer than his own:
Or never felt, as now I feel, that all once wildly sought
Has yielded to one gentle hope—one dear entrancing thought:
That one sweet glance of kindness from those dear eyes of light,
Could ransom all the dreary Past, and make the Future bright,
To him whose only happiness,—whose only refuge lies
In the calm soul-lit heaven of those beloved eyes.
Whose heart has thrilled not at the sound of one beloved Name;
Whose pulse hath never quickened at the footstep, or the tone
Of one, whose every hope and thought are dearer than his own:
Or never felt, as now I feel, that all once wildly sought
Has yielded to one gentle hope—one dear entrancing thought:
That one sweet glance of kindness from those dear eyes of light,
Could ransom all the dreary Past, and make the Future bright,
To him whose only happiness,—whose only refuge lies
In the calm soul-lit heaven of those beloved eyes.
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