CAN WE BANISH THE PAST? CAN WE EVER
RENOUNCE.
I
Can we banish the past? can we ever renounce
The friends and the pleasures belov'd by us once?
Ah! no: we in sorrow seek comfort alone,
In all that reminds us of days that are gone.
Let us talk of her then; 'tis a theme ever dear;
And we'll whisper her name till we fancy her here:
Surrounded by objects that endear'd by her touch,
We can never lament her, or love her too much.
II
Come, sing me the songs which she often has heard,
The past will revive with each note and each word;
If the future can offer no brightness to us,
We may steal a sad comfort from memory thus.
There are some who shrink back from such records with dread;
It is wise, if they wish not to think of the dead:
But dearest in death, as in life she must be,
And all that she valued is valued by me!
III
O touch not her harp! it has ever remain'd,
Since the hour that she left it, unmov'd, unprofan'd;
Not a hand o'er its strings has been suffer'd to stray,
It would chase her last thrilling vibration away:
Then awake not its music, for Oh! there's a tone,
There's a spell which belongs to that one harp alone;
But the spirit that call'd forth its sweetness is fled,
And its cadence would sound like a voice from the dead.
IV
Oh, touch not her harp! 'tis my only delight,
And I hear its sad notes 'mid the silence of night;
Her voice seems to utter her favourite words,
And her finger's soft pressure seems still on the chords:
And I fancy her then, as she shone upon earth,
In the bloom of her beauty, the dawn of her worth;
Not a soul was more pure, not a form was more fair—
In the haunts of the lovely, the loveliest there!
V
In that city,
which, whilst in its splendour it stood,
Vesuvius whelm'd in its withering flood,
The projects of life, and mirth's liveliest breath,
Were changed in an instant to darkness and death.
Yet the wine-cup still stands in the desolate halls,
And the names which in pastime were carv'd on the walls;
For the relics of life and enjoyment will last
Long after life's transient enjoyments are past.
VI
It was thus with my heart when the prospect was gay,
The hopes that were dear to me melted away;
Where joy seem'd to shine, I met nothing but gloom,
And the friend who had lov'd me was cold in her tomb:
Yet here I see all that her fancy preferr'd,
And this is the room where her accents were heard;
And whilst we are here, though of pleasure bereft,
We feel that the relics of pleasure are left.
