Page:Finden's Gallery.pdf/19



! little do those features wear The shade of grief, the soil of care; The hair is parted o'er a brow Open and white as mountain snow, And thence descends in many a ring, With sun and summer glistening. Yet something on that brow has wrought A moment's cast of passing thought: Musing of gentle dreams, like those Which tint the slumbers of the rose: Not love,—love is not yet with thee— But just a glimpse what love may be: A memory of some last night's sigh, When flitting blush and drooping eye Answer'd some youthful cavalier, Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear, To stir, but not to fill the heart;— Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.

Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more,