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ORIGINAL POEMS.
103
My pulse was calm, my heart was still,
At clasping of our hands,
Not such the eager wayward thrill,
That earthly love demands.
Perchance a different feeling sways
The fibres of the heart
Towards those, who from the wistful gaze
Are fated soon to part.
And yet in sooth I lov’d her well,
And she indeed was dear,
Though scarce I knew the mighty spell
That bound my soul to her.
But she is gone, and lowly laid
Under the springing grass—
O ne’er the mem’ry of the maid
Shall from my bosom pass!
But oft I’ll think upon her still,
And call her back in thought,
And strive to make her mem’ry fill,
The void her loss has wrought.
