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Poems

by W. T. Moncrieff
 

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CONSOLATIONS OF SORROW.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


67

CONSOLATIONS OF SORROW.

TO THE SHADE OF ------

I miss thee most, my love, at that lone hour,
When the last sun-rays leave our summer bower,
And day and night, day's orient progress run,
Are softly—sweetly—blending into one!
When the bright western star begins to rise,
Lighting the dark blue depths of cloudless skies,
That calm, that silent hour, the first of eve,
Dearest to those who only live to grieve!
Then plung'd in memories of refin'd, sweet sorrow,
E'en from my very grief, a joy I borrow;
A joy that almost makes my heart rejoice,—
For, in deep solitude, thère wakes a voice,
A still small voice, the mourner's heart that cheers,
Caught from the rill that trickles on in tears,

68

The wandering breeze that softly murmurs by,
And to the sufferer seems soft pity's sigh!
The listening silence, and the soothing calm,
Still to complaining hearts their sweetest balm,
And all the-nameless sympathies that rise
From nature's scenes, the woods—the plains—the skies!
And then, love, to my lonely couch I turn,
Where, while with thousand thoughts of thee I burn,
I woo the dream that gives thee back again,
And in that dear delusion lose my pain!