 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
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HOUSATONIC BANKS.
O'er Gaul's blue skies and shadowy woods
The springtime sun is sinking now,
And 'mid these flowery solitudes
Soft evening sheds its purple glow;
But, oh, my heart is far away
By Housatonic's forest shore,
Where lingers yet love's fading day,
That dawned on bliss, in seasons now no more.
The springtime sun is sinking now,
And 'mid these flowery solitudes
Soft evening sheds its purple glow;
But, oh, my heart is far away
By Housatonic's forest shore,
Where lingers yet love's fading day,
That dawned on bliss, in seasons now no more.
Trianon's groves, and Versailles' bowers
Shed light and bloom around me now,
But memories of life's happier hours
Rush o'er my brain and cloud my brow.
Why bloom these flowers this golden eve?
Why breathes such music in the grove?
My lonely heart cannot but grieve
O'er youth's electric, most unhappy love.
Shed light and bloom around me now,
But memories of life's happier hours
Rush o'er my brain and cloud my brow.
Why bloom these flowers this golden eve?
Why breathes such music in the grove?
My lonely heart cannot but grieve
O'er youth's electric, most unhappy love.
When frozen snows on Jungfrau's brow
Melt in the bright Italian sun;
When nature sleeps, in pictured glow,
In the wild vale of Lauterbrun;
When vengeance leaves the Mohawk's breast,
And beauty wins when virtue's lost—
Then shall my wasted heart find rest—
Oh! then forget the maid that loved me most.
Melt in the bright Italian sun;
When nature sleeps, in pictured glow,
In the wild vale of Lauterbrun;
When vengeance leaves the Mohawk's breast,
And beauty wins when virtue's lost—
Then shall my wasted heart find rest—
Oh! then forget the maid that loved me most.
Wearied with wo, I turn and gaze,
Like pilgrims on Loretto's shrine,
On the dim light of other days,
When hope, and love, and fame were mine;
And as the shadows of the past
Hurry along my burning brain,
I see companions on the waste,
The long, the lone, the endless waste of pain.
Like pilgrims on Loretto's shrine,
On the dim light of other days,
When hope, and love, and fame were mine;
232
Hurry along my burning brain,
I see companions on the waste,
The long, the lone, the endless waste of pain.
'Reft of the hopes our hearts held dear,
Dead to the world and desolate,
Oh, what can charm the spirit here?
Ambition, triumph, love or hate?
The spell of love, once bound, for ever
Sways the proud heart to good or ill;
No power or passion can dissever
The strong-linked chain that manacles the will.
Dead to the world and desolate,
Oh, what can charm the spirit here?
Ambition, triumph, love or hate?
The spell of love, once bound, for ever
Sways the proud heart to good or ill;
No power or passion can dissever
The strong-linked chain that manacles the will.
The last—last hue of sunset now
Gleams on the forests of St Cloud;
Bland is the breeze that fans my brow,
And evening in her realms of blue:
But sadness sinks upon my heart,
For all my spirit loved is lost,
And nought but Heaven can impart
Joy unto him that loved and found the cost.
Gleams on the forests of St Cloud;
Bland is the breeze that fans my brow,
And evening in her realms of blue:
But sadness sinks upon my heart,
For all my spirit loved is lost,
And nought but Heaven can impart
Joy unto him that loved and found the cost.
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |