1840-50.] GEORGE W. CUTTER. 315 'Twere well if from my aching heart The memory of thy smiles would flee, As sun-tints from the sky depart, As ripples from the halcyon sea. For while my breast with anxious art, Has treasured every look of thine. How can I hope thy gentle heart Will e'er retain one thought of mine ; Too long, alas! the seat of gloom, Of silent pain and wasting care ! I scarce could wish thy girlish bloom Its dark and lonely thoughts to share. And yet this little purple flower Is far more welcome to my eyes, More priceless than the richest dower That fortune's favored minions prize ; And if but one earnest prayer Were granted to my humble lot, I'd send thee one as fresh and fair, To say to thee " Forget me not ! " I'd have from art its beauteous mould With every costly gem arrayed ; The stem should be of virgin gold. The leaves of rarest emerald made, That it might hail thy sunny gaze Through life, in hours of gloom or glee, And tell thee with its fadeless blaze " Forget me not," eternally. FAREWELL TO THE LYRE. One strain, my harp, and then farewell For ever to thy sounding chords ! A sigh perchance this heart may swell, Pain'd by our final parting words ; This brow may own a shade of care, This changing cheek my grief betray. When on the passing breeze afar I hear thy latest tones decay ; For oh, I deem'd not when my touch Of late upon thy strings was lain. Thy tones beneath my wilder'd clutch So soon should turn to throbs of pain — That thou shouldst be as now thou art. Companion of my early years. Discordant as my breaking heart. And wet with my descending tears. Alas for pleasure's rosy hours ! Alas that time and grief and care. So soon should teach these hearts of ours How fleeting and how false they are ! The soft and fleecy clouds of night That float around the silver moon, The rainbow's arch of painted light, Survive their most enduring boon. As insubstantial as the hue Of shadows o'er a flowing stream. The evanscent drops of dew. The fleeting music of a dream : And what the spell that can recall One precious hour of joy that's fled? As soon beneath the sable pall '■' Ye may reanimate the dead. But let that pass, it boots not now, 'Tis for the feeble to complain, And manhood should in silence bow To whatsoe'er the fates ordain. Should bear him like the stately oak That does in storms but stronger grow, And e'en survive the lightning's stroke That lays his lofty honors low. AVhat tho' the false delusive glare. The phantom hopes of youth decline, The strength that's yielded by despair, The might of sorrow still is mine ; And if thy wild untutor'd strain Has made one bosom happier swell, Thy chords were not invoked in vain — My gentle harp, farewell, farewell !
