Viewing page 133 of 309

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

232   EMMA C. EMBURY.

Methinks it would be grief for me to bear 
E'en bliss, beloved, unless thou too might share; 
But oh! were joy poured forth in such excess, 
My heart would break from very happiness.

ERROR.

BECAUSE my heart dwelt not like cloistered nun 
In lonely cell unquiet silence keeping, 
Because it went forth 'neath Hope's blessed sun, 
And freely shared another's joy and weeping, 
Thou hast mistaken me.

Because my sympathy awoke from sleep, 
And frankly did unclose affection's portal 
To thoughts of tenderness as pure, as deep, 
As ever proved the human soul immortal, 
Thou hast mistaken me.

Because thy feebler spirit, lacking power, 
By generous thought such priceless love to measure, 
Awoke its base distrust in that sweet hour 
When my fond heart revealed its hidden treasure, 
Thou hast mistaken me.

INQUIETUDE.

METHOUGHT the icy hand of Time had chilled 
The gushing fount of passion in my breast— 
Methought that Reason's power, for aye, had stilled 
The bitter struggles of my heart's unrest.

Cold, calm, and self-possessing, I had deemed 
In quiet now to view life slip away—
Forgetting much that once my soul had dreamed, 
And lengthening out in peace my little day.


EMMA C. EMBURY.   233

Safe in indifference, I had vainly hoped 
To scorn the sympathy I might not share, 
And little thought mine own hand would have oped  
My bosom's portal to returning care.

How burns the blush of shame upon my cheek— 
How bends to earth in grief my haughty brow, 
When thus I find myself disarmed and weak 
Before the ideal shapes that haunt me now!

Oh God! how long, misled by erring thought, 
Shall I grope darkly on in feeling's maze? 
When shall I be by Time's sad lessons taught, 
And reach my home of rest by quiet ways?

OH! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE.

OH! tell me not of lofty fate, 
Of glory's deathless name; 
The bosom Love leaves desolate, 
Has naught to do with fame.

Vainly philosophy would soar— 
Love's height it may not reach; 
The heart soon learns a sweeter lore 
Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poisoned draught, 
The altar may be cold, 
But yet the chalice will be quaffed— 
The shrine sought as of old.

Man's sterner nature turns away 
To seek ambition's goal; 
Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray, 
May charm his weary soul;—
20*

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 19:07:30 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 10:13:39 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 11:11:34