Reproach

It smarts, it smarts, it smarts with pain;
O my poor heart! it smarts for thee;
Thou wakenest to my memory,
And then it smarts, and smarts again.

Woe, woe, woe, woe!—my doom is woe;
Thou fann'st my feelings into fire
And irony that's worse than ire,
Its venom o'er my wounds doth throw.

It weeps, it weeps—my heart it weeps
Far bitterer tears than when the bird
Its mate's imprisoned song has heard,
And its lone watch of sorrow keeps.

No! no, no, no! I will not wear
A monarch's gems—but rather hold
Love's chains of grief than pomps of gold,
And lay them on my bosom bare.

None, none, none, none, O none but thee,
Where'er I tarry, tread, or turn;
For thee alone life's flame shall burn
Till trampled by mortality.

O angel! angel mine! what eye
Can see, what heart can feel—nor own
Thy charms—and love thee, thee alone,
Soul of the kiss of ecstacy!

How sweet, how sweet, how sweet to dwell
In love's transporting joys!—to sail
Down life's sweet stream, with favoring gale,
Till reaching death's unwelcome cell!

Blest of creation—thou divine
Light of mine eyes—thou living rose,
That fragrance o'er my being throws,
Let blessings light that path of thine!