 | The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems |  |
144
THE ROSE.
How sweet is the soft op'ning day,
When nature is smiling through tears,
And blushing her charms to display,
The first Rose of summer appears!—
But on me all its beauties are lost,
I heed not how fragrant or fair,
Since mouldering in darkness and dust
Is the hand that first planted it there.
When nature is smiling through tears,
And blushing her charms to display,
The first Rose of summer appears!—
But on me all its beauties are lost,
I heed not how fragrant or fair,
Since mouldering in darkness and dust
Is the hand that first planted it there.
Ah, little I deemed at that hour,
When hope was like spring in its glow,
That e'er the shrub bloom'd in my bower,
My heart must be withered by woe!
Now spring with gay summer may dance,
And their chaplet of roses entwine;
'Tis winter to me, for no glance
Of feeling will brighten with mine.
When hope was like spring in its glow,
That e'er the shrub bloom'd in my bower,
My heart must be withered by woe!
Now spring with gay summer may dance,
And their chaplet of roses entwine;
'Tis winter to me, for no glance
Of feeling will brighten with mine.
145
How ample is Flora's fair page,
Array'd by the skill of the Swede—
'Tis the wisdom of youth or of age,
This volume of nature to read;
When my husband, with ardor, approv'd,
All rich did its beauties appear;—
I thought that the study I lov'd—
'Twas his accents I listened to hear.
Array'd by the skill of the Swede—
'Tis the wisdom of youth or of age,
This volume of nature to read;
When my husband, with ardor, approv'd,
All rich did its beauties appear;—
I thought that the study I lov'd—
'Twas his accents I listened to hear.
My books now neglected may lie,
Or opened, I gaze but to weep,
For mute is his voice, and his eye
Forever is shrouded in sleep—
Oh, death! why so stern in thy sway?
So eager frail mortals to call?
Like the rose, they may flourish to-day—
The morrow must witness their fall.
Or opened, I gaze but to weep,
For mute is his voice, and his eye
Forever is shrouded in sleep—
Oh, death! why so stern in thy sway?
So eager frail mortals to call?
Like the rose, they may flourish to-day—
The morrow must witness their fall.
146
They fall, are forgotten, the earth
Doth their names and their ashes receive—
But my husband, thy mem'ry and worth,
Embalmed in my bosom, shall live—
Nor death can the union destroy,
That's linked with the life of the mind;
We shall meet in those mansions of joy,
Where love is divinely refin'd:
Doth their names and their ashes receive—
But my husband, thy mem'ry and worth,
Embalmed in my bosom, shall live—
Nor death can the union destroy,
That's linked with the life of the mind;
We shall meet in those mansions of joy,
Where love is divinely refin'd:
And soon will that moment arrive,
For time never ceases his flight;
Yet who for existence would strive,
If life were but winter and night?
And it ne'er can be morning to me,
Nor will spring its warm radiance shed,
While the spot at each turning, I see,
Where he sleeps in his cold, narrow bed.
For time never ceases his flight;
Yet who for existence would strive,
If life were but winter and night?
And it ne'er can be morning to me,
Nor will spring its warm radiance shed,
While the spot at each turning, I see,
Where he sleeps in his cold, narrow bed.
June 14, 1823.
| The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems | |