Poems By John Moultrie. New ed |
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TO HELEN. |
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 | Poems |  |
93
TO HELEN.
The gift, dear maid, which thou hast sent
To gladden me to-day,
I'll treasure as thy monument
When thou art far away.
'Twill lighten many a dreary mood,
To think how young, how fair, how good,
How fancifully gay
Was she whose smiles once deign'd to bless
My spirit in its loneliness.
To gladden me to-day,
I'll treasure as thy monument
When thou art far away.
'Twill lighten many a dreary mood,
To think how young, how fair, how good,
How fancifully gay
Was she whose smiles once deign'd to bless
My spirit in its loneliness.
The sunshine of thine open brow
For me is nearly o'er,
And dim forebodings tell me now
That we shall meet no more:
But thou art with the vision'd things,
The dreams and dear imaginings,
The treasured thoughts of yore,
Which in my breast still swarm and play
On many a mental holiday.
For me is nearly o'er,
And dim forebodings tell me now
That we shall meet no more:
But thou art with the vision'd things,
The dreams and dear imaginings,
The treasured thoughts of yore,
Which in my breast still swarm and play
On many a mental holiday.
Thy living presence, heartless one,
Oh! bear it far from me;
I know not what its charms had done
Had I been fancy-free:
But now e'en from thy smiles I shrink,
And oh! 'twould break my heart to think
That I was loved by thee;
For, maiden, not that angel eye
Must shake my soul's fidelity.
Oh! bear it far from me;
I know not what its charms had done
Had I been fancy-free:
But now e'en from thy smiles I shrink,
And oh! 'twould break my heart to think
That I was loved by thee;
94
Must shake my soul's fidelity.
Farewell! and if for aye we part,
May grief ne'er cloud thy brow,
Nor Fashion make thy guileless heart
As cold—as mine is now.
Yet, trust me, wheresoe'er I rove,
I'll love thee with a brother's love,
Nor thou despise my vow;
But grant me still, in woe or weal,
Such love as gentle sisters feel.
May grief ne'er cloud thy brow,
Nor Fashion make thy guileless heart
As cold—as mine is now.
Yet, trust me, wheresoe'er I rove,
I'll love thee with a brother's love,
Nor thou despise my vow;
But grant me still, in woe or weal,
Such love as gentle sisters feel.
| Poems | |