Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch With lays, historical and romantic. By Charles Swain |
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REMINISCENCES. |
 | Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch |  |
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REMINISCENCES.
“That breathless agoniz'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!”
Moore.
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!”
Moore.
I
I know it is not beautiful!That in the vale below,
Far gayer gifts of summer bloom,
And brighter waters flow;
I know it is not beautiful!
But, oh! unto my heart,
It breathes a charm of vanished days,
No other scenes impart.
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II
The days once eloquent with tones,They never more may bring,
Sweet as e'er wooed a woman's lip
To Love's delicious spring;
Deep as the distant clarion's breath
Upon the moonlight air,
Inspiring high and glorious deeds,
It were a pride to share!
III
The form whose beauty imaged forthThe vision of my sleep,
The painting of a youthful heart,
Romantic, warm and deep;
The voice—that music of my mind!—
Are with the spells of yore,
On which the morn may brightly rise,
But never waken more!
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IV
No gift of thine, love, meets my gaze—No token fond and fair—
No, not—to soothe me in my tears—
A single lock of hair;—
Thou'st passed, my love, like some pale star
We look in vain to find,
Nor left to cheer my blighted path
One lonely ray behind!
V
They tell me I am waning fast,That leaf by leaf I fade,
They bear me forth with wreathed hair,
In jewelled robes arrayed;
They deem the festive dance may woo
My memory from this spot,
But, ah! amidst the courtly crowd,
Thou art the least forgot.
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VI
My eyes are wandering fast and farTo other shores away,
My soul is with thee in thy grave!—
How can I then be gay?—
I perish in their festive light—
I die amidst their mirth—
Oh! take me to thine arms, dear love,
From this cold, cheerless earth!
| Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch | |