The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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A REMEMBRANCE. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
A REMEMBRANCE.
O, lovely moon, that ridest so high,
Careering over hill and tree,
What memories gather in mine eye,
As, wandering forth, I gaze on thee!
Careering over hill and tree,
What memories gather in mine eye,
As, wandering forth, I gaze on thee!
The harvest wealth is garner'd in,
The harvest song is sounding near;
No sound of woe, no dream of sin
Methinks can reach thy holy sphere.
The harvest song is sounding near;
No sound of woe, no dream of sin
Methinks can reach thy holy sphere.
For all the air is calm and bright,
The ocean waves are dimly heard;
And, slumbering 'neath thy hallow'd light,
The smallest leaf is scarcely stirr'd.
The ocean waves are dimly heard;
And, slumbering 'neath thy hallow'd light,
The smallest leaf is scarcely stirr'd.
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Even so in hours for ever gone
I gazed upon thy sinless brow—
Even so, enraptured and alone,
I watch'd thy printless steps, as now.
I gazed upon thy sinless brow—
Even so, enraptured and alone,
I watch'd thy printless steps, as now.
Yet, not alone!—oh, not alone,
By sweet Winander's dulcet shore:
Ah me, that vision too is gone—
That bliss is past—that dream no more!
By sweet Winander's dulcet shore:
Ah me, that vision too is gone—
That bliss is past—that dream no more!
Can I forget that silent hour,
Beneath the magic of thy ray?
Can I forget the woodbine bower,
Whose memory ne'er shall pass away!
Beneath the magic of thy ray?
Can I forget the woodbine bower,
Whose memory ne'er shall pass away!
That brow so clear, that cheek so fair,
Those ringlets glancing in the light—
The vows, the sighs—the deep despair
That haunts me since that fatal night.
Those ringlets glancing in the light—
The vows, the sighs—the deep despair
That haunts me since that fatal night.
What recks it now!—no more for me
That angel voice shall sound again:
Another's arms encircle thee—
Another bosom soothes thy pain.
That angel voice shall sound again:
Another's arms encircle thee—
Another bosom soothes thy pain.
Yet, often in the lonely night,
When all the winds of heaven are still,
The vision sweeps across my sight—
That moonlight hour, that moonlight hill!
When all the winds of heaven are still,
The vision sweeps across my sight—
That moonlight hour, that moonlight hill!
| The bard, and minor poems | |