 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
FIRST LOVE.
Father of light, thy child recall,
She hath known of earthly bliss the all;
She hath loved and been beloved.—
She hath known of earthly bliss the all;
She hath loved and been beloved.—
Schiller.
Come with me, dear one, from these haunted dells!
Still doth she linger, oh! so sad and meek;
Though joy no more her maiden bosom swells,
Nor kissing zephyr crimsons her white cheek.
Still doth she linger, oh! so sad and meek;
Though joy no more her maiden bosom swells,
Nor kissing zephyr crimsons her white cheek.
In the cool shade of my delicious bower
This mournful whisper of the past shall cease;
There will I fold thee to my heart, pale flower;
Come, lovely trembler, give thyself to peace.
This mournful whisper of the past shall cease;
There will I fold thee to my heart, pale flower;
Come, lovely trembler, give thyself to peace.
Sweet-throated birds with glowing wings are there,
Filling the woods with beauty all day long;
How softly thou wilt swim away from care,
Upon the charméd wave of some blest song.
Filling the woods with beauty all day long;
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Upon the charméd wave of some blest song.
Faintly her young heart trembles, and the fringe
Lifts from the dewy wells of her clear eyes:
Her thin cheek deepens to a pale rose tinge—
And doth she love him? Hush! that look replies.
Lifts from the dewy wells of her clear eyes:
Her thin cheek deepens to a pale rose tinge—
And doth she love him? Hush! that look replies.
The golden tissue of love's web was crossed
With a dark sorrow, in this very vale;
Gone is the beautiful dream, its love-light lost,
The winding sheet were scarcely now so pale.
With a dark sorrow, in this very vale;
Gone is the beautiful dream, its love-light lost,
The winding sheet were scarcely now so pale.
And the sweet, passionate pleading all is vain,
Young wooer, of the eloquent lip and eye;
Her heart clings closer to its tender pain
If joy but whisper; leave her, then, to die.
Young wooer, of the eloquent lip and eye;
Her heart clings closer to its tender pain
If joy but whisper; leave her, then, to die.
For still she lingers in this haunted spot,
The light wind playing with her yellow hair,
And nestling to her cheek, she heeds it not;
Then leave, oh! leave her—all her world is there!
The light wind playing with her yellow hair,
And nestling to her cheek, she heeds it not;
Then leave, oh! leave her—all her world is there!
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |