She had the feeling and the fire, That fortune's stormiest blast could tire, Though delicate and young; Her bosom was not formed to bend-- Adversity, that firmest friend, Had all its fibres strung.
Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide A passion which she deem'd a pride! Oft have we sat and view'd The beauteous stars walk through the night, And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright, To curb old Ocean's mood.
She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part, That I might feel her beating heart-- Might read her living eye; Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll Through every vein, which to my soul, Said--Nature could not lie.
My spirit could its vigil hold For ever at this silent spot; But, ah! the heart within is cold, The sleeper heeds me not: The fairy scenes of love and youth, The smiles of hope, the tales of truth, By her are all forgot: Her spirit with my bliss is fled-- I only weep above the dead!
I need not view the grassy swell, Nor stone escutcheon'd fair; I need no monument to tell That thou art lying there: I feel within, a world like this, A fearful blank in all my bliss-- An agonized despair, Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom, But tells me, thou art in the tomb!
I knew Death's fatal power, alas Could doom man's hopes to pine, But thought that many a year would pass Before he scatter'd mine! Too soon he quench'd our morning rays, Brief were our loves of early days-- Brief as those bolts that shine With beautiful yet transient form, Round the dark fringes of the storm!
I little thought, when first we met, A few short months would see Thy sun, before its noontide, set In dark eternity! While love was beaming from thy face, A lover's eye but ill could trace Aught that obscured its ray; So calm its pain thy bosom bore, I thought not death was at its core!
The silver moon is shining now Upon thy lonely bed, Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow, Cold as thy virgin head; She seems to breathe of many a day Now shrouded with thee in the clay, Of visions that have fled, When we beneath her holy flame, Dream'd over hopes that never came!
Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell, It mars the hallow'd scene; And must we bid again--farewell! Must life still intervene? Its charms are vain! my heart is laid E'en with thine own, celestial maid! A few short days have been An age of pain--a few may be A welcome passport, love! to thee.