Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1828.pdf/4

 A bower of bliss to be. Alas! we trace The map of our own paths; and long ere years With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, Comes the swift storm, and blots them out in tears. That home was darkened soon: the summer's breeze Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas! Death unto one! and anguish, how forlorn To her that, widowed in her marriage-morn, Sat in the lonely dwelling, whence with him, Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, As from the sun shut out on every side, By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill, When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part Which life will teach—to suffer and be still! And with submissive love, to count the flowers Which yet are spared; and through the future hours To send no busy dream! She had not learned Of sorrow till that blight, and therefore turned In weariness from life. Then came the' unrest, The vague sad yearnings of the exile's breast; The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps: until at last she lay On her lone couch of sickness—lost in dreams Of the gay vineyards and blue glancing streams, Of her own sunny land—and murmuring oft Familiar names in accents wild, yet soft,