Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun, And vanish in the human heart; and then I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed, when, I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee, I have to struggle with the stormy sea Of human life until existence fades Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar Through the thick woods and shadow-chequered glades, While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear, As now, my garments of regret and care, As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. Yet, why complain? What though fond hopes deferred There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, To welcome me, within my humble home; There is an eye, with love's devotion bright, The darkness of existence to illume. Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight Beneath these trees; and from thy swelling breast 1834. THE WIDOWED HEART. THO LACHRYME PONDERA VOCIS HABENT. TRISTIS ERIS, SI SOLUS ERIS: DOMINÆQUE RELICTE HOU art lost to me forever!-I have lost thee, Isadore! Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into mine, Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine, - Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore! Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, thy heart is still and cold, Of our whole world of love and joy thou wast the only light, The vines and flowers we planted, Love, I tend with anxious care, Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,- Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place; Their merry laugh is heard no more, they neither run nor play, Restless I pace our lonely rooms, I play our songs no more, Alas! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in Spring, When first my love for thee was told, and thou to me didst cling, Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears, pressing thy lips to mine, In our old arbor, Dear, beneath the over-arching vine; Those lips are cold forever, Isadore! The moonlight struggled through the leaves, and fell upon thy face, Thy love and faith so plighted then, with mingled smile and tear, Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health, 1844. Thy voice of music cheered me, Love, in each despondent hour, As Heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower;- Thou art gone from me forever;-I have lost thee, Isadore! And desolate and lonely I shall be forever more: Our children hold me, Darling, or I to God should pray |