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The tone, that taught me to rejoice, ! ;
When prone, unlike thee, to repine The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine; The pledge we wore~ I wear it still,
But where is thine ?-ah, where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now! Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain. If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again; But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me—too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiv'n: On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heav'n!
Away, away, ye notes of woe!
Be silent thou once soothing strain, . Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.. To me they speak of brighter days:
But lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze
On what I am, on-what I was,
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony
Is worse than discord to my heart!
'Tis silent all !—but on my ear
The well-remember'd echoes thrill;
A voice that now might well be still.
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep, .
Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
But he, who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heav'n is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray
That scatter'd gladness o'er his path."
ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain ;
Then back to busy life again.
With things that never pleas'd before:
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; .
Man was not form'd to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou’rt nothing, all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
The heart—the heart is lonely still!