Poems By John Moultrie. New ed |
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TO MARY. |
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 | Poems |  |
98
TO MARY.
I
My muse hath long with silence dwelt,My harp been long unstrung;
I cannot feel as I have felt,
Nor sing as I have sung.
E'en to the verge of middle age
I've brought my earthly pilgrimage,—
My heart's no longer young;
And, sooth, 'tis time, at twenty-seven,
My muse should be the bride of Heaven.
II
Yet, Mary, ere I cease to floatFor aye on Fancy's sea,
I'll freight once more my “crescent boat,”
With fairy gifts for thee:
And thou, I trust, wilt not despise
Such scant and sorry merchandize,
Unworthy though it be
Of him, who, in his better day,
Was rich in rhyme and roundelay.
III
But if my lyre hath now decay'd,'Tis not from age alone;—
Sore havoc with its strings was made,
Ere yet my youth was flown:
99
Of one who nursed my fancy well,
And rear'd it with his own,
'Till discord fell 'twixt him and me,
And left me—what I now must be.
IV
My heart hath found a resting placeSince then, at love's sweet shrine;
And he, now freed from grief's embrace,
Shall soon repose in thine.—
A patient fight ye both have fought,
To which shall found and fervent thought
Look back in life's decline,
When youthful passion's reign is o'er,
And fancy's dreams delude no more.
V
'Twill be a joy in after years,That I've beheld thy face;
Have seen thee in thy smiles and tears,
Thy goodness and thy grace;
That I shall know, whate'er betide,
How lovely and how loved a bride
My friend's fond arms embrace;
What beauty, worth, and talent shed
Their brightness on his nuptial bed.
VI
And though beneath remoter skiesOur lot must now be cast;
Though different cares and sympathies
Round each must gather fast;
Though brief the computation be
Of future hours which ye and we
Together shall have past;
And feelings, now too deep for tears,
Must perish in the wear of years;—
100
VII
Yet still, in feeling's late decline,When Hope and Fancy flee,
'Twixt thee and me, 'twixt thine and mine,
A bond of love must be:
And though a month hath scantly flown
Since first our friendship's seed was sown,
I trust no time shall see
Our souls bereft of thoughts like these,
And yet more dear remembrances.
| Poems | |