 | The Vow of the Peacock, and Other Poems |  |
277
THE CHANGE.
Thy features do not wear the light
They wore in happier days;
Though still there may be much to love,
There's little left to praise.
They wore in happier days;
Though still there may be much to love,
There's little left to praise.
The rose has faded from thy cheek—
There's scarce a blush left now;
And there's a dark and weary sign
Upon thine altered brow.
There's scarce a blush left now;
And there's a dark and weary sign
Upon thine altered brow.
Thy raven hair is dashed with gray,
Thine eyes are dim with tears;
And care, before thy youth is past,
Has done the work of years.
Thine eyes are dim with tears;
And care, before thy youth is past,
Has done the work of years.
278
Beautiful wreck! for still thy face,
Though changed, is very fair;
Like beauty's moonlight, left to shew
Her morning sun was there.
Though changed, is very fair;
Like beauty's moonlight, left to shew
Her morning sun was there.
Come, here are friends and festival,
Recall thine early smile;
And wear yon wreath, whose glad red rose
Will lend its bloom awhile.
Recall thine early smile;
And wear yon wreath, whose glad red rose
Will lend its bloom awhile.
Come, take thy lute, and sing again
The song you used to sing—
The bird-like song:—See, though unused,
The lute has every string.
The song you used to sing—
The bird-like song:—See, though unused,
The lute has every string.
What, doth thy hand forget the lute?
Thy brow reject the wreath?
Alas! whate'er the change above,
There's more of change beneath!
Thy brow reject the wreath?
279
There's more of change beneath!
The smile may come, the smile may go,
The blush shine and depart;
But farewell when their sense is quench'd
Within the breaking heart.
The blush shine and depart;
But farewell when their sense is quench'd
Within the breaking heart.
And such is thine: 'tis vain to seek
The shades of past delight:
Fling down the wreath, and break the lute;
They mock our souls to-night.
The shades of past delight:
Fling down the wreath, and break the lute;
They mock our souls to-night.
| The Vow of the Peacock, and Other Poems | |