 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
125
TO THE SAME.
I.
Dear phantom of my midnight hour,That haunt'st my couch, and fill'st my sleep,
With hopes, that long have lost their pow'r,
And love, whose buried form, I weep!
Before my eye thou stand'st alone,
And on my soul thy looks arise,
So strong, I sometimes think, I've flown,
To join thee, in thy native skies;
But, that amidst those thoughts of heav'n,
The tear has stolen into my eye,
And I have thus been coldly driven,
Back to the earth, I cannot fly!
II.
Sweet spirit, when that earth is still,And all the busy hum of men
Is hush'd in slumber, dost thou fill
My chamber, with thy presence, then?
Tell me, yet tell me not, I dream—
'Tis sweet to think that thou art near,
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With converse, once, and still so dear:—
Let me still think, as I have thought,
That thou sit'st by my couch at night,
And weav'st the visions, kindly wrought,
To soothe my heart, to bless my sight.
III.
Oh! dearer, spirit, as thou art,Thus all immortal, (therefore dead,
Forever, to my watchful heart)—
Than all the living world thou'st fled—
The love thou'st cherish'd, cannot die—
Alas! that broken hearts should beat!
While Hope, though crush'd by Memory,
Builds up his altar of deceit—
Altho' assured thou art no more,
He still uprears his grateful shrine,
And vows, that on that dreamless shore,
Thy heart shall meet again with mine!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |