And speak kind words-but speak in vain, And try with smiles, and mirth, and song, To brink back cheerfulness again, And mitigate their cruel wrong. But hot tears stealing from mine eye, II. MY LOVE FOR THEE. A SONG. My love for thee was not of earth, 'Twas fraught with that celestial zeal, That ne'er in coarser souls hath birth, That none but heavenward spirits feel; It flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. It filled my mind with purer themes, My lute inspired with sweeter tone; And flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell It shed below a holier light Than ever sun or star hath given, It rent the films that veiled my sight, Forever linked my thoughts with heaven; And flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. III. IMPROMPTU ON BEING ASKED "WHY THIS GLOOM?" Ask not, alas! whence is this gloom, This dark cloud on my brow, Why fadeth thus my cheek's fresh bloom, Or why so pensive now. Ask not, dear friend, why steal the tears In silence from mine eye, Why anguish in my look appears, Or why so oft I sigh ; For there are woes too deep for speech, Feelings too finely strung For human sympathy to reach, Sorrows that have no tongue. IV. THE HEART'S WORST PANG. Ir is a wo beyond all other woes, A canker over which the heart may close, But cannot heal. A gnawing worm, whose tooth Where only spring the weeds of bitterness- Whose sparkling draughts, alas! we dare not taste! In all her catalogue of suffering: An eating rust-the spirit's direst pain, To love-adore-and be beloved again, Yet know between us lies a gulf that ever Our forms, our hopes, our destinies must sever. And flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell It shed below a holier light Than ever sun or star hath given, It rent the films that veiled my sight, Forever linked my thoughts with heaven; And flung around my soul a spell That ne'er can die with earth's farewell. III. IMPROMPTU ON BEING ASKED "WHY THIS GLOOM?" Ask not, alas! whence is this gloom, This dark cloud on my brow, Why fadeth thus my cheek's fresh bloom, Or why so pensive now. Ask not, dear friend, why steal the tears In silence from mine eye, Why anguish in my look appears, Or why so oft I sigh ; For there are woes too deep for speech, Feelings too finely strung For human sympathy to reach, Sorrows that have no tongue. IV. THE HEART'S WORST PANG. It is a wo beyond all other woes, A canker over which the heart may close, But cannot heal. A gnawing worm, whose tooth Where only spring the weeds of bitterness— Whose sparkling draughts, alas! we dare not taste! In all her catalogue of suffering : An eating rust-the spirit's direst pain, To love-adore-and be beloved again, Yet know between us lies a gulf that ever Our forms, our hopes, our destinies must sever. |