 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
114
SYMPATHY.
“Or sai tu dove e quando questi amori
Furon creati e come.”
Dante.
Furon creati e come.”
Dante.
I loved thee, not because thy brow
Was bright and beautiful as day,
Not that on thy sweet lip the glow
Was joyous as the morning ray;
No, though I saw thee fairest far,
The sun that hid each meaner star,
Yet 'twas not beauty taught me first
The love that silent tears have nurst.
Was bright and beautiful as day,
Not that on thy sweet lip the glow
Was joyous as the morning ray;
No, though I saw thee fairest far,
The sun that hid each meaner star,
Yet 'twas not beauty taught me first
The love that silent tears have nurst.
Nor was it that thine every word
With stores of mental wealth was fraught,
With eloquence each heart that stirred,
With deepest feeling, holiest thought;
Nor thy rich voice, whose 'witching spell
Like music on my spirit fell,
Sweet as the notes the bugle-horn
Breathes when o'er moonlit waters borne.
With stores of mental wealth was fraught,
With eloquence each heart that stirred,
With deepest feeling, holiest thought;
Nor thy rich voice, whose 'witching spell
Like music on my spirit fell,
Sweet as the notes the bugle-horn
Breathes when o'er moonlit waters borne.
But I beheld the darkening stain
Of sorrow cloud thy beaming eye,
I heard thy bosom's secret pain
Find utterance in the struggling sigh;
And, like some lone, neglected lute,
My young heart's sweetest chords were mute:
No hand had ever touched its strings,
To wake its blissful murmurings,
And silent still its chords would be
But for the touch of sympathy.
Of sorrow cloud thy beaming eye,
I heard thy bosom's secret pain
Find utterance in the struggling sigh;
And, like some lone, neglected lute,
My young heart's sweetest chords were mute:
No hand had ever touched its strings,
To wake its blissful murmurings,
And silent still its chords would be
But for the touch of sympathy.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |