Читать книгу The Ladies' Vase; Or, Polite Manual for Young Ladies - American Lady - Страница 11

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Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much

Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch,

Bids the same fountain flow;

Few, and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet,

Such ties would make this life of ours

Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye

Sees not as thine, which turns,

In such deep reverence, to the sky

Where the rich sunset burns;

It may be that the breath of spring,

Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring,

A dream to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times—

A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes;

The sound of waves by night;

The wind that with so many a tone

Some cord within can thrill;

These may have language all thine own,

To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not for this the true

And steadfast love of years;

The kindly, that from childhood grew,

The faithful to thy tears!

If there be one that o'er the dead

Hath in thy grief borne part,

And watched through sickness by thy bed,

Call his a kindred heart.

But for those bonds, all perfect made,

Wherein bright spirits blend,

Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,

With the same breeze that bend;

For that full bliss of thought allied,

Never to mortals given—

Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,

Or lift them unto heaven.