 | The lost pleiad ; and other poems |  |
ON HEARING VON WEBER'S LAST WALTZ.
As sad as the love that is turned to despair,
When the heart for the lost one in silence is breaking;
As sweet as the scent of the crushed rose to air,
When its life is its own withered leaves now forsaking;
As sweet as the scent that is crushed from the flower,
When trampled to death; or like joy in its sadness—
Now faint as the soul in its last dying hour—
Now strong as that soul when its grief turns to gladness—
Is that weary-souled hymn which to my soul is given
To win me away from this dark world to Heaven.
When the heart for the lost one in silence is breaking;
As sweet as the scent of the crushed rose to air,
When its life is its own withered leaves now forsaking;
As sweet as the scent that is crushed from the flower,
When trampled to death; or like joy in its sadness—
Now faint as the soul in its last dying hour—
Now strong as that soul when its grief turns to gladness—
Is that weary-souled hymn which to my soul is given
To win me away from this dark world to Heaven.
Like the last tender sigh of the virgin in tears,
When her lover, to come back no more, has departed;
Like that same tender sign when her lover appears,
And receives her again to his arms broken-hearted;
Like the dream of some land that is full of delight,
Where the joy of to-day is the same as to-morrow;
Where the evening returns, but to end not in night,
And the bliss is so pure that it turns not to sorrow—
Is that weary-souled hymn which to my soul is given
To win me away from this dark world to Heaven.
When her lover, to come back no more, has departed;
Like that same tender sign when her lover appears,
And receives her again to his arms broken-hearted;
Like the dream of some land that is full of delight,
Where the joy of to-day is the same as to-morrow;
Where the evening returns, but to end not in night,
And the bliss is so pure that it turns not to sorrow—
Is that weary-souled hymn which to my soul is given
To win me away from this dark world to Heaven.
For it tells of the rapture, the gladness, the love
Of the Seraph-winged soul, when the body is dying—
When the windows of Heaven are opened above
To receive it, while upward to Paradise flying;
And it tells here on earth of the bliss, the delight,
In the language of Angels, that Angels are feeling,
And reveals to the soul, what the soul, in its flight
Up to Heaven, of that Heaven to the world is revealing;
Until weary of earth, unto my soul seems given
The wings of an Angel to bear me to Heaven.
Of the Seraph-winged soul, when the body is dying—
When the windows of Heaven are opened above
To receive it, while upward to Paradise flying;
And it tells here on earth of the bliss, the delight,
In the language of Angels, that Angels are feeling,
And reveals to the soul, what the soul, in its flight
Up to Heaven, of that Heaven to the world is revealing;
Until weary of earth, unto my soul seems given
The wings of an Angel to bear me to Heaven.
Oaky Grove, Ga., June 10th, 1844.
| The lost pleiad ; and other poems | |