 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
295
STANZAS.
[Wouldst thou call to my mind then, those sunny days flown]
Wouldst thou call to my mind then, those sunny days flown,
Wouldst thou seek to remind, too, by words and expressions,
While my deep heart forgets not one thrill it hath known—
My heart, that wild world of affections and passions.
Wouldst thou seek to remind, too, by words and expressions,
While my deep heart forgets not one thrill it hath known—
My heart, that wild world of affections and passions.
O! remind me not thus—I can never forget,
But lightly—ah, lightly still touch on my sorrow,
There are flowers born to fade—there are stars form'd to set,
But they pass to give place to yet brighter to-morrow.
But lightly—ah, lightly still touch on my sorrow,
There are flowers born to fade—there are stars form'd to set,
But they pass to give place to yet brighter to-morrow.
But in Life 'tis not so—still the bright things depart,
And they leave but the dull or the painful behind, then;
And we turn from the young glowing world of the heart,
To dwell in the deep thoughtful world of the mind then.
And they leave but the dull or the painful behind, then;
And we turn from the young glowing world of the heart,
To dwell in the deep thoughtful world of the mind then.
296
But spare me now, dear One—and let me move on—
Not fully remembering—nor wholly forgetting;
Alas! when that Sun sank which once o'er me shone,
How much of my Life's light set then with its setting.
Not fully remembering—nor wholly forgetting;
Alas! when that Sun sank which once o'er me shone,
How much of my Life's light set then with its setting.
Away! it is over for ever—'tis done!
All links have been shattered—all sweet ties disevered,
Still something, perchance, from affliction I won—
From the bondage of breathless devotion delivered.
All links have been shattered—all sweet ties disevered,
Still something, perchance, from affliction I won—
From the bondage of breathless devotion delivered.
Too much—'tis too much—if in this mortal life
We thus give all our souls up to passion's devotion,
While we steep our Existence in sorrow and strife,
And make that Existence one trance of emotion.
We thus give all our souls up to passion's devotion,
While we steep our Existence in sorrow and strife,
And make that Existence one trance of emotion.
Let the past in its own gloomy shadows lie veiled,
Ah! my faint hand at least shall not seek to unshroud it;
Once, once I endured, till my bursting heart failed—
Oh, Cruel! thou knew'dst it, though I ne'er avowed it.
Ah! my faint hand at least shall not seek to unshroud it;
Once, once I endured, till my bursting heart failed—
Oh, Cruel! thou knew'dst it, though I ne'er avowed it.
297
It was pride—it was doubt—'twas despondence and fear,
'Twas the Excitement of Soul—'twas the woman within me,
That concealed every tremour, and check'd every tear,
Till Love's self might not hope to confession to win me!
'Twas the Excitement of Soul—'twas the woman within me,
That concealed every tremour, and check'd every tear,
Till Love's self might not hope to confession to win me!
No! I cannot forget while I live! but mayest thou
Forget all that's past—and forget I remember!
Although still, shall I, ever remember as now,
E'en till Life's varying Seasons wind up with December!
Forget all that's past—and forget I remember!
Although still, shall I, ever remember as now,
E'en till Life's varying Seasons wind up with December!
Then seek not, I charge thee, seek not to remind,
'Twere far better to banish the vain retrospection;
'Twere far better to cast not one fond look behind—
Oh, far better to fly from regret and reflection!
'Twere far better to banish the vain retrospection;
'Twere far better to cast not one fond look behind—
Oh, far better to fly from regret and reflection!
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |