 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
135
TO THE MOON BEAMS.
Away, away, from her favorite bower,
Where ye loved to come in the evening hour,
To silver the leaf, to smile on the flower,
And checker the scene so playfully!
Away, away! for the maid ye seek
Hath a darkened eye, and a pale, pale cheek!
As the lonely walk and the flowers all speak,
While they hang their heads so mournfully!
Where ye loved to come in the evening hour,
To silver the leaf, to smile on the flower,
And checker the scene so playfully!
Away, away! for the maid ye seek
Hath a darkened eye, and a pale, pale cheek!
As the lonely walk and the flowers all speak,
While they hang their heads so mournfully!
Away! for the voice ye used to win,
With its soft, rich melody formed within,
Is hushed—'t is gone, as it never had been
Poured out so sweet and feelingly!
And the fearful harp, that ye could make
Its deepest and tenderest notes awake,
Now hath not a string but it fain would break,
They lie so lorn and listlessly!
With its soft, rich melody formed within,
Is hushed—'t is gone, as it never had been
Poured out so sweet and feelingly!
And the fearful harp, that ye could make
Its deepest and tenderest notes awake,
Now hath not a string but it fain would break,
They lie so lorn and listlessly!
Away, to the slope of the dew-bright hill;
Where the sod is fresh, and the air is chill;
Where the marble is white, and all is still,
O'er beauty sleeping peacefully!
But never reveal who there is led
By your light to weep o'er her lowly bed,
That a spirit so pure from the earth hath fled,
And to sigh for her loss unceasingly!
Where the sod is fresh, and the air is chill;
Where the marble is white, and all is still,
O'er beauty sleeping peacefully!
But never reveal who there is led
By your light to weep o'er her lowly bed,
That a spirit so pure from the earth hath fled,
And to sigh for her loss unceasingly!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |