Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley. In Three Vols |
 | I, II, III. |
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HOW GLAD THIS HEART. |
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 | Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems |  |
176
HOW GLAD THIS HEART.
How glad this heart was in the days of old,
No thorns might pierce it, and no shades enfold,
It sprung exulting, throbbing full and high,
To heights, and loftier heights of joyauncy!
No thorns might pierce it, and no shades enfold,
It sprung exulting, throbbing full and high,
To heights, and loftier heights of joyauncy!
But such bright state of bliss was not to last,
Soon fled the illusions, soon the gladness passed;
The fair delights—the expectancies more fair,
Vanished like vapours—shapes and dreams of air!
Soon fled the illusions, soon the gladness passed;
The fair delights—the expectancies more fair,
Vanished like vapours—shapes and dreams of air!
Life's rose leaves overhung a fatal stream,
And they have dropped therein, no more to beam
In blushful beauty—delicately bright—
And breathe around one atmosphere of light.
And they have dropped therein, no more to beam
In blushful beauty—delicately bright—
And breathe around one atmosphere of light.
177
Hope, like a dream, thou'rt gone—lost, lost, art thou
But memory's many voices sternly now
The deep and melancholy hush invade
Like trumpets thrilling through the old midnight shade!
But memory's many voices sternly now
The deep and melancholy hush invade
Like trumpets thrilling through the old midnight shade!
Those many voices, many echoes wake
In the torn heart that will not, cannot break;
Would they were silent! that they ne'er shall be—
Till life itself is lost with memory!
In the torn heart that will not, cannot break;
Would they were silent! that they ne'er shall be—
Till life itself is lost with memory!
How glad this heart was in the olden days,
But gladness fleeteth—nought but sorrow stays;
Joy is a butterfly—short lived and frail—
But grief's a nightingale that lives to wail.
But gladness fleeteth—nought but sorrow stays;
Joy is a butterfly—short lived and frail—
But grief's a nightingale that lives to wail.
How glad my heart was in the days of yore,
From heights to loftier heights of joy 'twould soar—
But now, it sinketh—ever sinketh still
From depths to lower depths of grief and ill!
From heights to loftier heights of joy 'twould soar—
But now, it sinketh—ever sinketh still
From depths to lower depths of grief and ill!
| Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems | |