University of Virginia Library

[I]

There is a form, that I would view,
As thro' the mist it comes at eve—
It moves, it seems like one I knew,
For whom my heart must ever grieve:
It comes upon the robe of night,
Its form is flitting by me now,
Beneath the pale moon's misty light,
That would obscure its mournful brow.
Sweet spirit, by those heavenly airs,
That steal around my bosom yet,
By every thought that still endears;
The form of memory to regret!
By all the hopes I could not lose,
And yet have known the same as lost;
I would not (if I could) refuse
Thy sad attendance, mournful ghost!
The nightwind's growing chilly now—
Thy heart was once so gentle, kind,
That it must sink beneath the snow,
That's borne upon that wintry wind.
Come then, thy heart was once my own,
Thy bosom once to mine was prest,
Renew, sweet spright, the moments gone,
And seek the shelter of my breast.
I would not, (if I could) recal,
The moments of a former day;
'Tis pain, yet Memory fosters all—
Fond wretch! she fosters her decay!
There is no tone of thine, that's lost,
No song, no word of thine, that came
Like music, o'er a vale of frost,
Charming the ice-drops into flame;
That Memory does not cherish still,
In mournful token of the past,
Undying e'en thro' good or ill,
The only trophy, Care! thou hast!
Sweet spirit! could I but pourtray,
That trophy now before we part;
I'd point thee to my form's decay,
I'd lead thee to a broken heart!
There Memory drinks her own blue vein—
Self-sacrificed, her hope forsakes;
Feeds her own life, with her own pain,
And dies in every draught she takes.

II

Come, o'er the waste of waters blue,
The faded forms of other years;
Come, and recal my infant view,
My early joys and tears.
Shadows of former times! again
With icy lip, and sunken eye,
And mournful brow, and rattling brain,
Ye wander, sadly by!
I'll wake a harp of former tone,
Again of Being, shall ye dream,
And all that once ye deem'd your own,
Shall either be, or seem.
Sorrows, the shades of former years,
Joys, that ye thought could never fly,
Memory that spoke alone in tears,
Again shall meet your waking eye!
And whilst ye wander o'er the hours,
That wizard Fancy wakens yet,
Beware! ye rove in other bowers—
The Present, ye have never met.
The Present—lo! his form is here—
There's sadness in his very smile;
A mingled tint of hope and fear,
That cannot grief beguile!
A frozen image that was fix'd
In death's embrace, with smiling lips,
Whilst light and darkness there is mix'd,
Like Phœbus, in a brief eclipse!