The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey Collected Edition |
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TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. |
 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
163
TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY.
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, when Hope hath built a bower
Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower,
To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,
A whirlwind from the desert comes, and “all is in the dust.”
Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower,
To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust,
A whirlwind from the desert comes, and “all is in the dust.”
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, that when the poor heart clings,
With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast,
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.
With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,
That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast,
Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss,
With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this;
One moment round about us their “angel lightnings” play,
Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past away.
With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this;
One moment round about us their “angel lightnings” play,
Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath past away.
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth—
Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward, in their birth:
The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute,
The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute.
Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward, in their birth:
The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute,
The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely lute.
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'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, with all that's best below;
The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go—
The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,
The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock.
The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go—
The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns the rock,
The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock.
'Tis ever thus—'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair,
Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear;
A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love,
Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.
Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly natures bear;
A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love,
Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |