Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch :: :: University of Virginia Library

“And all my hours of brief delight
Flew, like the speedy winds of night,
Which soon shall veil their sullen flight
Across my grave.”
Strangford's Camoens.

I

They tell me, I am greatly changed,
From that which I have been:
So changed, it would have passed belief,
Had they not known—not seen:
They tell me, my once graceful form
Is waning—pale and thin—
Alas! these blighted looks scarce speak
The deeper blight within!

II

They tell me in one little month,
I seem to have lived years;
My ringlets have the shade of age,
My eyes are worn with tears:
They say the beauteous cheek you praised,
Now wears a deathly hue;
And, oh! I feel within my breast,
My heart is dying too!

III

I do not wish to send one pang
Of sadness to thy soul;
But there are feelings—deep and strong—
We may not quite control:
I do not—do I love reproach?—
Oh! if—forgive—forgive—
'Tis woe to think of thee—and die!
'Tis worse than woe—to live!

IV

My sleep is wild and dark to me,
My dreams are of the dead;
I wake—and bless the light of day,
Though day brings its own dread:
The visions and the tongues of home,
Haunt all my steps with pain;
Till fire is in my aching sight—
And madness in my brain!

V

This may not—will not—long endure;
I know death's hour is nigh,—
And, oh! 'tis all on earth I ask,—
To see thee—ere I die!
Is it too much for all my tears,
For all my anguish past,
To grant me this—my parting prayer—
My last—my very last!