Oh, long forsaken! no fond dream, Floating (like flowers on a stream), Down the wild current of my mind, Counts o'er the joys I've left behind, A little thing has drawn these tears, For thee, and for our early years!
A moment since I cast a look Within the pages of a book Which thou to me hast often read, Thy shoulder pillowing my head; A faint, sweet perfume thence arose; _There lay thy gift_--a faded rose!
It was as if an altar burned With sacrifices, and I turned-- Beloved, do not think me weak! Tears, wild with grief, fled down my cheek, And to my lips arose a prayer That I might _die_ while pausing there!
My song is o'er; 'twill only tell, To some who know and love me well, At times, within my inmost soul, Are thoughts I cannot quite control, Because they breathe and speak of thee, Who can be nothing now to me!
THEY say that she is beautiful; They praise that speaking eye, That fair and softly rounded cheek, Its bright and changeful dye, That pure and polished brow that towers Like ivory temple high.
But is that radiant being fair The light and joy of _home?_ Doth from its loving inmates there Her heart forget to roam? Oh, is she not as false and fair As ocean's snowy foam?
They say, unlike the tones of earth Rings out that music free; But only from the halls of mirth Are heard those tones of glee; They say that she is beautiful-- She is not so to me.
I've seen that sweet and smiling lip Give back a stern reply; I've seen the cloud of passion dim That proudly glorious eye, And on that pure transparent brow The shade of anger lie.
I know that outward beauty sits Upon that queenly brow; Before its proud and gorgeous shrine Doth man admiring bow, While she, with false, capricious smile, Repays each idle vow.
I know with seeming truth doth flash That darkly radiant eye, Yet beauty oft will sell for cash What love can never buy, Aside a loving heart will dash That time and change defy.
Upon the thickly crowded street, I many a form have past, Whom grace gave not proportion meet From beauty's model cast, To whom the _soul_ a glory lends A radiance that will last, When beauty's tender floweret bends Before time's wintry blast.
Yet _there_ I see no loving _heart_, No spirit pure and free, Though like a whited sepulchre An outward gloss may be; They say that she is beautiful, She is not so to me.