To ------ (Brontë)

I will not mourn thee, lovely one, Though thou art torn away. 'Tis said that if the morning sun Arise with dazzling ray And shed a bright and burning beam Athwart the glittering main, 'Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam Engulfed in clouds and rain.

And if thy life as transient proved, It hath been full as bright, For thou wert hopeful and beloved; Thy spirit knew no blight.

If few and short the joys of life That thou on earth couldst know, Little thou knew'st of sin and strife Nor much of pain and woe.

If vain thy earthly hopes did prove, Thou canst not mourn their flight; Thy brightest hopes were fixed above And they shall know no blight.

And yet I cannot check my sighs, Thou wert so young and fair, More bright than summer morning skies, But stern death would not spare;

He would not pass our darling by Nor grant one hour's delay, But rudely closed his shining eye And frowned his smile away,

That angel smile that late so much Could my fond heart rejoice; And he has silenced by his touch The music of thy voice.

I'll weep no more thine early doom, But O! I still must mourn The pleasures buried in thy tomb, For they will not return.