A Remembrance

I see thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingling with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm:
In visions of the midnight deep,
Thine accents through my bosom thrill,
Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep, —
For, wrapt in thought I see thee still!
I see thee still, — that cheek of rose, —
Those lips, with dewy fragrance wet,
That forehead in serene repose, —
Those soul-lit eyes — I see them yet!
Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead, —
Thou gracest still this earthly sphere,
An influence still is round me shed,
Like thine, — and yet thou art not here!
Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight,
Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom;
No more thy smiles inspire delight,
For thou art garner'd in the tomb.
Rich harvest for that ruthless power
Which hath no bound to mar his will :—
Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour,
Throned in my heart, I see thee still.