dreamy lines.
Oh! what is this spirit that steals
From the bosom its loveliest sleep?
From the bosom its loveliest sleep?
I know not: but yet I have felt
This sadness the voice cannot tell;
And the gloom o'er my spirit dwelt
With a weary and heart-sick'ning spell.
This sadness the voice cannot tell;
And the gloom o'er my spirit dwelt
With a weary and heart-sick'ning spell.
There are bosoms that never throbbed—
There are hearts that never knew
This hour of the shadowing forth,
Sad heritage of the few.
There are hearts that never knew
This hour of the shadowing forth,
Sad heritage of the few.
Oh! are there not griefs enough%
Real, living, sad as true—
That the heart claims kindred with,
But mind must create anew?
Real, living, sad as true—
That the heart claims kindred with,
But mind must create anew?
But such is my spirit's frame—
This shade o'er my heart's young life;
And the past and the present agree
To tell of the future's strife.
This shade o'er my heart's young life;
And the past and the present agree
To tell of the future's strife.
92
