A Lament

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 reveal'd the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouch'd by sorrow, untaught by art;
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring,
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were fill'd with love that hath pass'd with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seem'd 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 fated 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 —
O, 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.

O! 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 perish'd 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 conceal'd by the coffin lid; —
All that was lovely to me is there —
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!