 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
226
BALLAD.—WHERE ART THOU?
Oh! where art thou, the dearest
Of all that boyhood knew;—
Oh! where art thou, still fairest
Of all to Memory's view?
Long years have swept above me,
Age silver'd o'er my brow,—
But, if thou live and love me—
Speak! Tell me! where art thou?
Of all that boyhood knew;—
Oh! where art thou, still fairest
Of all to Memory's view?
Long years have swept above me,
Age silver'd o'er my brow,—
But, if thou live and love me—
Speak! Tell me! where art thou?
I've wander'd long—how lonely?
With one sweet passion fed,
That clung and cheer'd me only,
When other hopes had fled;
That thou, my own one, cherish'd
Still true thy youthful vow—
Alas! if it hath perish'd,—
And thou?—oh! where art thou?
With one sweet passion fed,
That clung and cheer'd me only,
When other hopes had fled;
That thou, my own one, cherish'd
Still true thy youthful vow—
Alas! if it hath perish'd,—
And thou?—oh! where art thou?
I fled—I left thee weeping,
And bitter tears were mine,
That did not cease when sweeping,
In tempest, o'er the brine;
I saw thee then in vision,
As memory sees thee now,
And dream'd a dream Elysian;—
But where, alas! art thou!
And bitter tears were mine,
That did not cease when sweeping,
In tempest, o'er the brine;
I saw thee then in vision,
As memory sees thee now,
And dream'd a dream Elysian;—
But where, alas! art thou!
And years of toil and sorrow,
And pain and fear were mine;
My heart could only borrow
Its hope from thoughts of thine:
I strove, that I might measure
The ocean waste, and now
I come to seek the treasure
Most loved,—and, where art thou?
And pain and fear were mine;
My heart could only borrow
Its hope from thoughts of thine:
227
The ocean waste, and now
I come to seek the treasure
Most loved,—and, where art thou?
And scenes of old rise brightly
Again on Memory's view;
'Tis boyhood's footstep, lightly
Trips o'er the fields it knew;
Such dreams of joyous childhood,
As lift my spirit now:—
There is the cot, the wildwood,
The hawthorn!—where art thou?
Again on Memory's view;
'Tis boyhood's footstep, lightly
Trips o'er the fields it knew;
Such dreams of joyous childhood,
As lift my spirit now:—
There is the cot, the wildwood,
The hawthorn!—where art thou?
No welcome!—oh! the sorrow
That shuts yon evening skies!
Vain would they beauty borrow,
From false and fleeting dyes;
Soft blue,—carnation flushes,
In mingling tissues glow;
But sad the fear that rushes
Upon me!—where art thou?
That shuts yon evening skies!
Vain would they beauty borrow,
From false and fleeting dyes;
Soft blue,—carnation flushes,
In mingling tissues glow;
But sad the fear that rushes
Upon me!—where art thou?
Such silence! oh! the feeling
Of dread that chills my heart!
Even at my footfall, stealing
O'er grassy slopes, I start;
Thy voice was full of greeting,
Why is it silent now?
Thou still wast first at meeting—
Oh! Mary, where art thou?
Of dread that chills my heart!
Even at my footfall, stealing
O'er grassy slopes, I start;
Thy voice was full of greeting,
Why is it silent now?
Thou still wast first at meeting—
Oh! Mary, where art thou?
The porch! around its column,
Thou bad'st the creeper twine,
And, with the green made solemn,
Thy windows wreathed in vine;
Pots, fill'd with purple flowers,
Stood on long shelves below,—
They're gone—the buds, the bowers,—
All! all! and where art thou?
Thou bad'st the creeper twine,
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Thy windows wreathed in vine;
Pots, fill'd with purple flowers,
Stood on long shelves below,—
They're gone—the buds, the bowers,—
All! all! and where art thou?
And yet, the hearth is blazing,
As it was wont to burn,
When through thy lattice gazing,
Thou'st watch'd for my return;
I see, or am I dreaming?
Thou'rt at the window now!—
'Tis but the sun's last gleaming—
'Tis gone—oh! where art thou?
As it was wont to burn,
When through thy lattice gazing,
Thou'st watch'd for my return;
I see, or am I dreaming?
Thou'rt at the window now!—
'Tis but the sun's last gleaming—
'Tis gone—oh! where art thou?
I lift the latch!—thy father
Sits in the ancient chair—
Oh! tears, how thick they gather,
I scarce can see him there;—
Thy mother! wildly wringing
Her hands, beholds me now,
Fast to the window clinging,
She sinks—oh! where art thou?
Sits in the ancient chair—
Oh! tears, how thick they gather,
I scarce can see him there;—
Thy mother! wildly wringing
Her hands, beholds me now,
Fast to the window clinging,
She sinks—oh! where art thou?
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |