AND thou art dead, as young and fair, Too soon returned to Earth! Though Earth received them in her bed, And o'er the spot the crowd may tread In carelessness or mirth, There is an eye which could not brook I will not ask where thou liest low, So I behold them not: The flower in ripened bloom unmatched Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely snatched, The leaves must drop away: I know not if I could have borne Extinguished, not decayed; One vigil o'er thy bed; To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace, Uphold thy drooping head; And show that love, however vain, Nor thou nor I can feel again. Yet how much less it were to gain, And more thy buried love endears IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN. IF sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemned, appear to smile, Unfaithful to thy memory! Nor deem that memory less dear, That then I seem not to repine; I would not fools should overhear One sigh that should be wholly thine. If not the goblet pass unquaffed, It is not drained to banish care; The cup must hold a deadlier draught, That brings a Lethe for despair. And could Oblivion set my soul From all her troubled visions free, I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl That drowned a single thought of thee. For wert thou vanished from my mind, Where could my vacant bosom turn? And who would then remain behind |