 | Lyrical Poems |  |
71
THE IRRECOVERABLE
Eugenia, ere our favourite field
Gave us its beauty first to view,
Think of the thousand days that went
Before the charm we knew,
Or dream'd how much of joy the path might yield!
Gave us its beauty first to view,
Think of the thousand days that went
Before the charm we knew,
Or dream'd how much of joy the path might yield!
This tender slope of constant green,—
This sea, that, deepening through the trees,
Shows like a sky beneath the sky,—
This home of utter peace
Lay patient in its grace, untrod, unseen.
This sea, that, deepening through the trees,
Shows like a sky beneath the sky,—
This home of utter peace
Lay patient in its grace, untrod, unseen.
Yet when we felt the green recess
Our souls with its calm beauty seize,
At once it spoke itself our own;
While in the heart of peace
A peace more deep disclosed its blissfulness.
Our souls with its calm beauty seize,
At once it spoke itself our own;
While in the heart of peace
A peace more deep disclosed its blissfulness.
72
—Eugenia! Mine at last! my own!
Home of the peace earth cannot give
In her most perfect perfectness!
What fate was mine to live
Those many years of Paradise unknown?
Home of the peace earth cannot give
In her most perfect perfectness!
What fate was mine to live
Those many years of Paradise unknown?
As music sleeping in the strings
Till by a touch awaken'd, lay
The blessedness of life with thee;
And day died after day
In hopeless chase of vain imaginings.
Till by a touch awaken'd, lay
The blessedness of life with thee;
And day died after day
In hopeless chase of vain imaginings.
And if at last the favourite scene
Gave its green beauty to the view,—
And if at last I clasp'd thee mine,—
Yet can I not subdue
The sigh for what was not, yet might have been.
Gave its green beauty to the view,—
And if at last I clasp'd thee mine,—
Yet can I not subdue
The sigh for what was not, yet might have been.
It is the mystery of our lot:—
Though past Hope's inmost hoping rich,
E'en in Love's very heart, to weep
The years of dearth, through which
We might have been blest, and we knew it not.
Though past Hope's inmost hoping rich,
E'en in Love's very heart, to weep
The years of dearth, through which
We might have been blest, and we knew it not.
| Lyrical Poems | |