1830-40.] AMELIA B. WELBY. 223 I know no sorrows round me cling, And to another give the place My years are few ; She held within the heart. And yet my heart's the saddest thing I ever knew. Her memory still within my mind Retains its sweetest power ; For in my thoughts the world doth share It is the perfume left behind But little part ; To whisper of the flower ; A mournful thing it is to bear Each blossom, that in moments gone A mournful heart. Bound up this sunny curl, Recalls the form, the look, the tone Of that enchanting girl. THE GOLDEN RINGLET. Her step was like an April rain Here is a little golden tress O'er beds of violets flung ; Of soft unbraided hair, Her voice, the prelude to a strain The all that's left of loveliness, Before the song is sung ; That once was thought so fair ; Her life — 'twas like a half-blown flower And yet though time hath dimmed its sheen. Though all beside hath fled, Closed ere the shades of even ; Her death, the dawn, the blushing hour. That opes the gate of heaven. I hold it here, a link between A sinsle tress ! how slight a thins: My spirit and the dead. To sway such magic art. Yes ! from this shining ringlet still And bid each soft remembrance spring A mournful memory springs. Like blossoms in the heart ! That melts my heart and sends a thrill It leads me back to days of old, Through all its trembling strings. To her I loved so long, I think of her, the loved, the wept, Whose locks outshone pellucid gold, Upon whose forehead fair. Whose lips o'erflowed with song. For eighteen years, hke sunshine, slept This golden curl of hair. Since then I've heard a thousand lays From lips as sweet as hers. sunny tress ! the joyous brow. Yet when I strove to give them praise, Where thou didst lightly wave, I only gave them tears ; With all thy sister-tresses now I could not bear, amid the throng Lies cold within the grave; Where jest and laughter rung. That cheek is of its bloom bereft, To hear another sing the song That eye no more is gay ; That trembled on her tongue. Of all her beauties thou art left. A solitary ray. A single shining tress of hair tj •/ To bid such memories start ! Four years have passed, this very June, But tears are on its luster — there Since last we fondly met- — I lay it on my heart : Four years ! and yet it seems too soon ! when in Death's cold arms I sink, To let the heart forget — Who then, with gentle care, Too soon to let that lovely face Will keep for me a dark-brown link — From our sad thoughts depart, A ringlet of my hair ?
