OH, world! oh, life! oh, time! On whose last steps I climb Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime ? Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight TO EDWARD WILLIAMS. I. THE serpent is shut out from paradise. The wounded deer must seek the herb no more The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain. Of hatred I am proud, II. with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent. But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. Turns the mind's poison into food, Its medicine is tears, its evil good. III. Therefore, if now I see you seldomer, Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly Your looks, because they stir Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die : The very comfort that they minister I scarce can bear, yet I, So deeply is the arrow gone, Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn. IV. When I return to my cold home, you ask You spoil me for the task Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene, Of wearing on my brow the idle mask Of author, great or mean, In the world's carnival. I sought Peace thus, and but in you I found it not. V. Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot With various flowers, and every one still said, "She loves me loves me not." And if this meant a vision long since fled If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought— If it meant, — but I dread To speak what you may know too well: Still there was truth in the sad oracle. VI. The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Doubtless there is a place of peace VII. I asked her, yesterday, if she believed That I had resolution. One who had Would ne'er have thus relieved His heart with words, but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved. These verses are too sad To send to you, but that I know, Happy yourself, you feel another's woe. ΤΟ I. ONE word is too often profaned And pity from thee more dear II. I can give not what men call love, The worship the heart lifts above Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow? |