THEY came—like bees in summer-time, When earth is decked with flowers, And while my year was in its prime They reveled in my bowers; But when my honey-blooms were shed, And chilling blasts came on, The bee had with the blossom fled: I sought them—they were gone.
They came—like spring-birds to the grove, With varied notes of praise, And daily each with other strove The highest strain to raise; But when before the frosty gale My withered leaves were strown, And wintry blasts swept down the vale, I sought them—they were gone. I. G. B.
SWEET moon, I love thee, yet I grieve To gaze on thy pale orb to-night; It tells me of that last dear eve I passed with her, my soul’s delight.
Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyed In the pale glory of thy beams, As forth we wandered, side by side, Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.
My fond arm was her living zone, My hand within her hand was pressed, And love was in each earnest tone, And rapture in each heaving breast.
And many a high and fervent vow Was breathed from her full heart and mine, While thy calm light was on her brow Like pure religion’s seal and sign.
We knew, alas! that we must part, We knew we must be severed long, Yet joy was in each throbbing heart, For love was deep, and faith was strong.
A thousand memories of the past Were busy in each glowing breast, And hope upon the future cast Her rainbow hues—and we were blest.
I craved a boon—oh! in that boon There was a wild, delirious bliss— Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon, Upon a more impassioned kiss?
The parting came—one moment brief Her dim and fading form I viewed— ’Twas gone—and there I stood in grief Amid life’s awful solitude.
Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell, If passion still unchanged is hers— Do thoughts of me her heart still swell Among her many worshipers?
Say, does she sometimes wander now At eve beneath thy gentle flame, To raise to heaven her angel-brow And breathe her absent lover’s name!
Oh when her gentle lids are wet, I pray thee, mark each falling gem, And tell me if my image yet Is pictured tremblingly in them!
Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrill As wildly as of yore for me— Does her young heart adore me still, Or is that young heart changed like thee?