University of Virginia Library

VII.

O sweet refreshment to the wearied heart,
This converse with the unalterable dead!
I know not where, nor rightly what thou art:
I only know that thou art blest and bright,
Unfading, and mine own: and thus I sit
Long pensive hours alone, scarce stirred in thought,
Scanning thy presence through a mist of tears.
Others may change, but thou shalt never change:
Forgetfulness, and distance, and neglect,
The chills of earthly love,—the stealthy pace
Of summer-stealing age,—these touch not thee:
That heart of thine, fresh well of living love,
Hadst thou been here, might in long years have failed,
Or poured on thankless fields its errant streams,
Or flowed away (such sad vicissitudes
We learn to look for, who live long on earth)
Else-whither in abundance, sparing here
Few drops and scant. But now, beloved one,
That everlasting fount is all our own.