The Rustic Shrine

A shadow of the cypress-bough
Lies on my path to-day;
A melancholy — which in vain
I strive to chase away.
The angel Memory hath flown
To old and cherish'd things,
To bring the light of early years
Around me on her wings:
And where the lovelorn birds complain
Within their green abode,
Between two elms, a rustic seat
Invites her from the road.
There shall she sit, as oft before,
And sigh as oft again,
O'er names engraved, which long have braved
The sunshine and the rain.
And one — it is the dearest name
On Love's unnumber'd shrines —
So dear, that even envious Time
Hath guarded it with vines;
And wreathed it with his choicest flowers,
As if the bridal claim,
Which Fate denied unto her brow,
Should still adorn her name!
Ah, well do I remember yet
The day I carved that name!
The rattle of the locusts' drum
Thrills o'er me now the same:
Adown the lane the wayward breeze
Comes with a stealthy pace,
And brings the perfume of the fields
To this deserted place.
Unto her blushing cheek again
It comes — the blessed air!
Caressing, like a lover's hand,
The tresses of her hair.
The brook runs laughing at her feet,
O'erhead the wild-bird sings;
The air is fill'd with butterflies,
As though the flowers had wings.
But this is Fancy's pilgrimage,
And lures me back in vain!
The brook, the bench, the flowers, and vines,
I ne'er may see again:
For this is but an idle dream,
That mocks me evermore —
And memory only fills the place
The loved one fill'd of yore!