Page:Records of Woman.pdf/58

50

When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully, Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low, And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh, To send the passion of its melody Thro' his pierc'd bosom—on its tones to bear My life's deep feeling, as the southern air Wafts the faint myrtle's breath,—to rise, to swell, To sink away in accents of farewell, Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow Surely my parted spirit yet might know, If love be strong as death!