Page:The Garland 1839.pdf/4

 A passion which I may not stay, A sudden fount that must have way.

But thou, the while—oh! almost strange, Mine imaged self! it seems That on thy brow of peace no change Reflects my own swift dreams; Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in thy face.

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep, Affection—Memory—Grief— Pass o'er my soul as winds that sleep O'er a frail aspen-leaf! Oh! that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by!

Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be, That when my song and soul are gone Shall seek my form in thee, Tell them of One for whom 'twas best To flee away and be at rest!