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The voice that made those sounds more sweet
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Is worse than discord to my heart!
'T is silent all! —but on my ear
A voice that now might well be still:
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.
ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain ;
With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more?
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring
I'll be that light unmeaning thing
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, Like roses o'er a sepulchre. Though gay companions o'er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, The heart- the heart is lonely still!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""T is comfort still," I faintly said,
"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
The heart that gave itself with thee
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,
Or break the heart to which thou 'rt prest! Time tempers love, but not removes,
More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,
But silent let me sink to Earth,
With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a fear.
Yet Love, if Love.in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives and him who dies.
'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.
- for Beauty still
But vain the wish
Then lonely be my latest hour,
"Ay, but to die, and go,” alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!
Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
'T is something better not to be.
"HEU QUANTO MINUS EST CUM RELIQUIS VERSARI QUAM TUI MEMINISSE."
AND thou art dead, as young and fair
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
There is an eye which could not brook
I will not ask where thou liest low the spot;
Nor There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved and long must love
To me there needs no stone to tell,
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see, Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep,
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away; I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd