There is a voice, I shall hear no more--
There are tones, whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odours of spring were they,--
Precious and rich--but they died away;
They came like peace to my heart and ear--
Never again will they murmur here;
They have gone like the blush of a summer morn,
Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.
There were eyes that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see;
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were filled with love, that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose:
And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain
With raptures, that never may dawn again;
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed--
Alas! for the doom of the early dead!
Alas! for the clod that is resting now
On those slumbering eyes--on that faded brow;
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom--
For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone,
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone;
Alas for the hopes that with thee have died--
Oh loved one!--would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear;
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm--
My arm embraceth thy graceful form;
I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom--thou art not here.
Oh! once the summer with thee was bright;
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light.
There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh,
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh;
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest--
A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast;
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest of all things to heaven above.
Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
To that tranquil and solemn place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast;
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid--
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;--
All that was lovely to me is there,
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!