Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 25 1829.pdf/16



Oh! that those lips had language!—Life hath pass'd With me but roughly since I saw thee last.

eyes are charm'd—thine earnest eyes, Thou Image of the Dead! A spell within this sweetness lies, A virtue thence is shed.

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, A blessing seems to be; And sometimes there, my wayward mind A still reproach can see.

And sometimes Pity—soft and deep, And quivering through a tear; Ev'n as if Love in Heaven could weep, For Grief left drooping here.

And oh! my spirit needs that balm, Needs it midst fitful mirth, And in the night-hour's haunted calm, And by the lonely hearth.

Look on me thus, when hollow Praise Hath made the weary pine, For one true tone of other days, One glance of love like thine!

Look on me thus, when sudden glee Bears my quick heart along, On wings that struggle to be free As bursts of skylark song.

In vain, in vain!—too soon are felt The wounds they cannot flee; Better in child-like tears to melt, Pouring my soul on thee!

Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone, Whence is thy power of change, Thus, ever shadowing back my own, The rapid and the strange?

Whence are they charm'd—those earnest eyes?— I know the mystery well! In my own trembling bosom lies The Spirit of the Spell.

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born— Oh! change no longer, Thou! For ever be the blessing worn On thy pure thoughtful brow!