Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/512

 496 BENJAMIN T. GUSHING. [1850-60. The Past ! how fair it rises I DO NOT LOVE THEE. Before the sight — I DO not love thee — by my word I do not ! Clad with unchangincf graces, COO 7 I do not love thee — for thy love I sue not, Ari-ayed in light ! And yet I fear there's hardly one that Moved by its visions glowing, weareth The free heart bounds — Thy beauty's chains, who like me for thee Soft as a stream's sweet flowing. careth ; Its music sounds ! Who joys like me when in thy joy believ- ing Ah ! then how many knew us Who like me grieves when thou dost seem Who know no more — but grieving. How many who now view us But though I charms so perilous eschew From heaven's dim shore ! not, The fond, the dear, the cherished. I do not love thee — no, indeed I do not ! Removed from day. Their forms of beauty perished I do not love thee — prithee, why so coy, In cold decay. then. Doth it thy maiden bashfulness annoy. Our love could not enchain them then ? With bondage sweet — Sith the heart's homage still will be up- Our hopes could not detain them. welling. As rainbows fleet ; Where Truth and Goodness have so sweet They gave for earth, in leaving, a dwelling. One yeai'ning sigh — Surely, unjust one, I were less than mortal, One wish for those left grieving — Knelt I not thus before that temple's por- tal. Others dare love thee — dare what I do Then sought the sky. not, The Past ! what joys enshrined it ! How fresh and fair Then let me worship, bright one, while I Were the flower-wreaths that entwined woo not. it — Those moments rare ; Their odor yet embalms it In beauty lone. And when the present names it, I sadly moan. THE PAST. When twilight shades are stealing The Past ! its scenes are banished — Across the sky. Its glories o'er ; And zephyrs, gently wailing. Each blissful dream hath vanished, Are wandering by, To cjme no more ; Then sit I sadly dreaming, Yet like the mournful blossoms With brow o'ercast, That deck a tomb, While to my soul comes beaming Their memories in our bosoms The holy Past. Will ever bloom !