128 GEORGE D. 1 PRENTICE. [1830-40. And must I linger here, I would not, lovely one, that thou To stain the plumage of my sinless years, Shouldst wrong the heart that deems thee And mourn the hopes to childhood dear now "With bitter tears ? Its glory and its pride ; I would not thou shouldst dim with tears Ay, must I linger here, The vision of its better years. A lonely branch upon a withered tree, Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, And yet I love thee ! Memory's voice Went down with thee ? Comes o'er me, like the tone Of blossoms, when their dewy leaves Oft, from life's withered bower. In autumn's night-winds moan. In still communion with the past, I turn. I love thee still ! That look of thine And muse on thee, the only flower Deep in my spirit has its shrine, In Memory's urn. And beautiful and lone; And there it glows — that holy form — And, when the evening pale, The rainbow of hfe's evening stoi-m. Bows, like a mourner, on the dim, blue wave. I stray to hear the night-winds wail And, dear one, when I gaze on thee, Around thy grave. So pallid, sweet, and frail. And muse upon thy cheek, I well Where is thy spirit flown ? Can read its mournful tale ; I gaze above — thy look is imaged there ; I know the dews of memory oft I listen — and thy gentle tone Are falling, beautiful and soft, Is on the air. Upon love's blossoms pale ; I know that tears thou fain wouldst hide Oh, come, while here I press Are on thy lids, sweet victim-bride. My brow upon thy grave ; and, in those mild And thrilling notes of tenderness, I, too, have wept. Yon moon's pale light Bless, bless thy child ! Has round my pillow strayed. While I was mourning o'er the di-eams Yes, bless thy weeping child ; That blossomed but to fode. And o'er thine urn — Religion's holiest The memory yf each holy eve. shrine — To which our burning spirits cleave, Oh, give his spirit, undefiled, Seems like some star's sweet shade, To blend with thine. That once shone bright and pure on high, But now has parted from the sk}-. Immortal visions of the heart ! Again, again farewell ! I will not listen to the tones TO MARY. That in wild music swell From the dim past. Those tones now fade It is my love's last lay ! — and soon And leave me nothing but the shade, Its echoes will have died, The cypress, and the knell! And thou wilt list its low, wild tones Adieu — adieu ! My task is done ; No more, pale victim-bride ! And noM^, God bless thee, gentle one !
