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244 SARAH HELENA WHITMAN. She ne'er will hear again the song Of merry birds in spring, Nor roam the flowery braes among In the year's young blossoming; Nor longer in the lingering light Of Summer's eve shall we, Lock'd hand in hand, together sit Beneath the green-wood tree. 'T is therefore that I dread to see The glowing Summer's sun, And balmy blossoms on the tree, Unfolding one by one. They speak of things which once have been, But never more can be; And earth, all deck'd in smiles again, Is still a waste to me. ON CARLO DOLCE'S MAGDALEN. "There Seems sorrow's softnes charm'd from "its despair." BYRON. THOU fairest penitent! how pure the light That mantling o'er that pale transparent brow, Through sorrow's shade, shines tremulously bright; And melts in rose-hues o'er thy cheek of snow. As if thy Saviour's smile of pardoning love Had o'er thy beauty a soft halo thrown; And poured those rays of glory from above, Circling thy temples like a silvery crown; Flooding with mellow light thy long, fair hair, Whose waves of shadowy gold ungathered fall, Nor longer, 'mid their wild luxuriance, wear The flashing gem, or flowery coronal. SARAH HELENA WHITMAN. 245 Though every line of that sweet thoughtful face Seems touched by sorrow to a softer grace, Though o'er thy cheek's young bloom a blight hath pass'd, And dimm'd its pensive beauty;—from thine eye, With the soft gloom of gathering tears o'ercast, Doth love shine forth o'er all triumphantly; A light which shame nor sorrow could impair, Unquench'd, undimm'd, through years of lone despair. Yet in that humid mirror trembles still A deprecating sweetness;—a fond fear That the deep love, which found no answering thrill In human hearts, might nought avail thee here. Poor wanderer! by the world's cold scorn opprest, 'Mid the wild wreck of happiness and fame, Love lingered still within that blighted breast As when thy lips first lisp'd a mother's name. Woe for the hearts, poor prodigal, like thine, Wasting their treasures o'er an earthly shrine— The full deep treasures of the yearning heart— To win what earthly love could ne'er impart;— Vainest of life's vain dreams! yet didst thou find That rock at last whence living waters burst, And 'neath its sheltering canopy reclined, Quenched, at that gushing fount, thy lone heart's thirst. Oh! love—immortal love! not all in vain The young heart wastes beneath life's weary chain, Filled with thy bright ideal,—whose excess Of beauty mocks our utter loneliness!— The weary bark long tossing on the shore Shall find its haven when the storm is o'er; The wandering bee its hive;—the bird its nest;— And the lone heart of love, in heaven its home of rest! 21 *
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 10:19:08