Thou comest! Yes! the vessel's cloud
Hangs dark upon the rolling sea.
Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine,
To win one instant's glimpse of thee !
I must not spring to grasp thy hand,
To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye;
But I may stand far off, and gaze,
And watch thee pass unconscious by,
And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts,
Mixt with the idlers on the pier.-
Ah, might I always rest unseen,
So I might have thee always near!
To-morrow hurry through the fields
Of Flanders to the storied Rhine!
To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close
Beneath one roof, my queen! with mine.
STILL glides the stream, slow drops the boat Under the rustling poplars' shade ;
Silent the swans beside us float
None speaks, none heeds; ah, turn thy head!
Let those arch eyes now softly shine,
That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland;
Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine!
On mine let rest that lovely hand!
My pent-up tears oppress my brain,
My heart is swoln with love unsaid.
Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain,
And on thy shoulder rest my head!
Before I die-before the soul,
Which now is mine, must re-attain
Immunity from my control,
And wander round the world again ;
Before this teased o'erlabour'd heart
For ever leaves its vain employ,
Dead to its deep habitual smart,
And dead to hopes of future joy.
EACH on his own strict line we move,
And some find death ere they find love;
So far apart their lives are thrown
From the twin soul which halves their own.
And sometimes, by still harder fate,
The lovers meet, but meet too late.
-Thy heart is mine!-True, true! ah, true!
-Then, love, thy hand!-Ah no! adieu !
STOP !—not to me, at this bitter departing,
Speak of the sure consolations of time!
Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting,
So but thy image endure in its prime.
But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature
Wills that remembrance should always decay-
If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd feature
Must, when unseen, from the soul fade
Me let no half-effaced memories cumber !
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee!
Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber-
Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!
Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward
Scanning my face and the changes wrought there :
Who, let me say, is this stranger regards me,
With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?
VAIN is the effort to forget.
Some day I shall be cold, I know,
As is the eternal moonlit snow
Of the high Alps, to which I go—
But ah, not yet, not yet!
Vain is the agony of grief.
'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot
Ties straitly up from mine thy lot,
And were it snapt-thou lov'st me not!
But is despair relief?
Awhile let me with thought have done.
And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine,
And that far purple mountain-line,
Lie sweetly in the look divine
Of the slow-sinking sun ;
So let me lie, and, calm as they,
Let beam upon my inward view
Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue-
Eyes too expressive to be blue,
Too lovely to be grey.
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