Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them--
Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;
While her looks and her voice made a language between them,
That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.
But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her--
Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;
She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her.
That song of past days on her lips to the last.
Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing--
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.
BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.
TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.
To-day, dearest! is ours;
Why should Love carelessly lose it?
This life shines or lowers
Just as we, weak mortals, use it.
'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay,
To think of the thorns of Sorrow
And Joy, if left on the stem to-day,
May wither before to-morrow.
Then why, dearest! so long
Let the sweet moments fly over?
Tho' now, blooming and young
Thou hast me devoutly thy lover;
Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse,
Some treasure may steal or borrow;
Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps,
Or I less in love to-morrow.
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