 | Poems |  |
84
THE MOURNER.
Not a word—not a word, the mourner said,
But she languidly raised her drooping head,
And her cheek flushed through her tears;
And O! the tulip o'ercharged with dew,
With her glorious heart-leaves gleaming through,
Not half so bright appears!
But she languidly raised her drooping head,
And her cheek flushed through her tears;
And O! the tulip o'ercharged with dew,
With her glorious heart-leaves gleaming through,
Not half so bright appears!
Many a braid did dishevelled float
Down the proud swanniness of her throat,
And glossy they were, and shining;
And in many a fitful and fevered streak
The colour lightened along her cheek—
Now deepening, and now declining!
Down the proud swanniness of her throat,
And glossy they were, and shining;
And in many a fitful and fevered streak
The colour lightened along her cheek—
Now deepening, and now declining!
85
No dews shall revive that drooping vine,
Bid that broken rose in fresh glory shine,
Nor give back the crushed harp's melodies!
That wounded bird to its nest restore,
That stricken deer to its haunts of yore,
Nor the lost star to midnight's skies.
Bid that broken rose in fresh glory shine,
Nor give back the crushed harp's melodies!
That wounded bird to its nest restore,
That stricken deer to its haunts of yore,
Nor the lost star to midnight's skies.
But gently—gently shall she part,
For the lovely life at her panting heart
Fast ebbs and melts away:
In dreams of the far-off heavens she dwells—
'Mongst the spring-leaves' murmurs hears boding knells—
And she sighs—yet she would not stay!
For the lovely life at her panting heart
Fast ebbs and melts away:
In dreams of the far-off heavens she dwells—
'Mongst the spring-leaves' murmurs hears boding knells—
And she sighs—yet she would not stay!
The greensward's haunts of the violet, soon
Shall hide from all that meek heart undone—
Let her go to her dreamless rest.
When the summer melts soft from wood and vale,
She shall shrink to the grave, all pure and pale,
E'en as to a mother's breast!
Shall hide from all that meek heart undone—
Let her go to her dreamless rest.
When the summer melts soft from wood and vale,
She shall shrink to the grave, all pure and pale,
E'en as to a mother's breast!
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