Can wake it from the dead.—Once, once indeed,
And only once, I loved. Ah, who can tell
When first the new-born infant opes its eye,
And drinks the light of heaven, what mystic thrill
Of joy extatic, then from nerve to nerve
Through this, of all the portals to the brain
Most complicate, attends that rushing beam!
'Tis even thus with passion's first wild throb
In youth's young soul: 'tis indefinable;
And all we know is, that it gave a zest,
An impetus unto the tide of life,
That until then had sluggish been and dull.
Oh, 'tis a gift from heaven! and could it last,
I could not wish for any other light
Than the bright trance of love.
Once more we meet down by the rocky shore,
Fix'd by his love.—Ah! in this wilderness,
'Twill cheer this soul, and yield some passing ray
To tempt this fluttering soul awhile to stay.
Ah! there the happy sea-bird tells her tale
To her loved mate: together scale o'er storms,
Which rend those high materialities,
Which bound their wild domain of angry seas.
But when the saucy winds have ceased to chide,
Their glistening eyes with undulations shine:
Fearless and proud, they ride,
And watch the crested waves to rocks incline.
Come, Sorrow, hug thy child in cold embrace,
Gently take down the tabernacle slow:
These eyes may no more gaze on that loved face,
And all the world is now a world of woe.
Sorrow has lovely shades, in which it were well sometimes to sit. She has cooling streams for feverish worldliness. She has medicines which are better than wine. She has an altar for pious vows, and a cold, dreary sepulchre for those who despise her visitations.
