 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
166
THE MOURNER'S ADDRESS
TO A MINIATURE.
Bright image of her lovely face,
Who was my spirit's life and light,
'T is agony thy looks to trace,—
'T is more, to have thee out of sight.
To see thee, and remember where
Thy fair original is laid,
But brings the tortures of despair
From the sad ruins death has made.
Who was my spirit's life and light,
'T is agony thy looks to trace,—
'T is more, to have thee out of sight.
To see thee, and remember where
Thy fair original is laid,
But brings the tortures of despair
From the sad ruins death has made.
To think how this kind, angel eye,
Once beamed on me—and then, to feel
How deep the shades that on it lie—
'T is to my heart like barbed steel.
I have a lock of sunny hair,
That lay upon this snowy brow;
Its lustre is not dimmed; but where—
Oh! where 's the forehead's beauty now?
Once beamed on me—and then, to feel
How deep the shades that on it lie—
'T is to my heart like barbed steel.
I have a lock of sunny hair,
That lay upon this snowy brow;
Its lustre is not dimmed; but where—
Oh! where 's the forehead's beauty now?
I have the precious golden band,
That round her taper finger shone.
The ring is bright; but how 's the hand—
The hand for which I gave my own?
I have her pledge of early love,
When Joy's fresh fount was clear and high.
Her gift is near; her soul—above!
Her form is—where?—earth must reply!
That round her taper finger shone.
The ring is bright; but how 's the hand—
The hand for which I gave my own?
I have her pledge of early love,
When Joy's fresh fount was clear and high.
Her gift is near; her soul—above!
Her form is—where?—earth must reply!
167
I had a home; and there I found
Delights like those of Paradise.
Its very name is now a sound
That chills, when heard, my veins to ice.
My wounded spirit grows estranged
To all the scenes of life below;
The world and I at once are changed;
I long a higher home to know.
Delights like those of Paradise.
Its very name is now a sound
That chills, when heard, my veins to ice.
My wounded spirit grows estranged
To all the scenes of life below;
The world and I at once are changed;
I long a higher home to know.
My love must linger near the dead,
With fondness that can never die,
Till that which loves and mourns hath fled,
And dust and dust together lie.
On thee, thou dear but silent thing!
I look and doat: Oh! speak to me—
Speak! for my heart, at every string,
Is wrung, and bleeding over thee!
With fondness that can never die,
Till that which loves and mourns hath fled,
And dust and dust together lie.
On thee, thou dear but silent thing!
I look and doat: Oh! speak to me—
Speak! for my heart, at every string,
Is wrung, and bleeding over thee!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |