100
SUMMER ON THE LAKES.
| “Death |
| Opens her sweet white arms, and whispers Peace; |
| Come, say thy sorrows in this bosom! This |
| Will never close against thee, and my heart, |
| Though cold, cannot be colder much than man's.” |
| “I wish I were where Helen lies,” |
| A lover in the times of old, |
| Thus vents his grief in lonely sighs, |
| And hot tears from a bosom cold. |
| But, mourner for thy martyred love, |
| Could'st thou but know what hearts must feel, |
| Where no sweet recollections move, |
| Whose tears a desert fount reveal. |
| When “in thy arms burd Helen fell,” |
| She died, sad man, she died for thee, |
| Nor could the films of death dispel |
| Her loving eye's sweet radiancy. |
| Thou wert beloved, and she had loved, |
| Till death alone the whole could tell, |
| Death every shade of doubt removed, |
| And steeped the star in its cold well. |
| On some fond breast the parting soul |
| Relies, — earth has no more to give; |
| Who wholly loves has known the whole, |
| The wholly loved doth truly live. |
| But some, sad outcasts from this prize, |
| Wither down to a lonely grave, |
| All hearts their hidden love despise, |
| And leave them to the whelming wave. |
