Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 31 1831.pdf/4



them not from grassy dells, Where wild bees have honey-cells; Not from where sweet water-sounds Thrill the green wood to its bounds; Not to waste their scented breath On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are, And the glow-worm's emerald star, And the bird, whose song is free, And the many-whispering tree: Oh! too deep a love, and vain, They would win to Earth again!

Spread them not before the eyes, Closing fast on summer skies! Woo thou not the spirit back, From its lone and viewless track, With the bright things which have birth Wide o'er all the coloured Earth!

With the violet's breath would rise Thoughts too sad for her who dies; From the lily's pearl-cup shed, Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; Dreams of youth—of spring-time eves— Music—beauty—all she leaves!

Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art, Calmer is her gentle heart. Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove, Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love; But that passion, deep and true, Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these, In their fragile mould she sees; Shadows of yet richer things, Born beside immortal springs, Into fuller glory wrought, Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore, in the lily's leaf, She can read no word of grief; O'er the woodbine she can dwell, Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell! And her dim, yet speaking eye, Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore, once, and yet again, Strew them o'er her bed of pain; From her chamber take the gloom, With a light and flush of bloom: So should one depart, who goes Where no Death can touch the Rose!F. H.