Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/74

70 THE DEAD LOVER.

he then dead, God! and hath he perished

In all his brightness—stricken back to dust!

The high imaginings—the hopes he cherished—

And my mad love—alike an empty trust?

It can not, can not be; look on his brow!

The light of intellect is resting there;

And the calm smile upon his proud lip now,

Hath the same sweetness it was wont to wear.

Oft have I gazed upon his manly face,

And felt my heart throb with a lofty pride

To mark the same expression I now trace,

Of high, pure thoughtfulness; the soul's full tide

Of still but mighty feelings shining through

Each soul-illumined feature; would not Death,

With his damp, icy touch, and blighting dew,

Efface the impress with his first cold breath?

Yet say they, "He is dead!" I may now dare

To lay my hand upon his kingly brow,

And smooth the masses of his jetty hair,

Whose glossy curls have never until now

Threaded my trembling fingers; strange delight!

How my heart burns within its prisoning cell!

And my brain reels, till all around is night—

Would 'twere death's silent and insidious spell!

The brief insensibility is past;

And deeper than before the rankling dart

Pierces its barbed point; oh, shall this last,

And life yet linger in this heaving heart?