Memories

Once more, once more, my Mary dear,
I sit by that lone stream,
Where first within thy timid ear
I breathed love’s burning dream.

The birds we loved still tell their tale
Of music, on each spray,
And still the wild-rose decks the vale —
But thou art far away.

In vain thy vanished form I seek,
By wood and stream and dell,
And tears of anguish bathe my cheek
Where tears of rapture fell;

And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers
Dear thoughts my soul employ,
For in the memories of past hours
There is a mournful joy.

Upon the air thy gentle words
Around me seemed to thrill,
Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords
When all the winds are still,

Or like the low and soul-like swell
Of that wild spirit-tone,
Which haunts the hollow of the bell
When its sad chime is done.

I seem to hear thee speak my name
In sweet low murmurs now;
I seem to feel thy breath of flame
Upon my cheek and brow;

On my cold lips I feel thy kiss,
Thy heart to mine is laid —
Alas, that such a dream of bliss
Like other dreams must fade!