Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 366, April 18, 1829 - Various - Страница 5

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.

Sweet wanderer—we have known her long!

And often on our ear,

Has gush'd the cadence of her song,

As if some stream were near.

Her path was through our tranquil dell,

When breezes kiss'd the curfew bell.

We gaz'd upon the golden hair,

That o'er her white brow shone,

And beauty's tinge had cluster'd there,

A grace unlike its own.

We call'd it beautiful—that brow!

But rayless were the eyes below.

Those pale dim eyes, we would have given

Our flowers to see them glow—

They slept, as sleeps the summer heaven,

When the sun waxeth low:

And soft her glossy lashes were,

As stars within the crystal air.

Oh, call her not a phantom form,

Of deep sepulchral spells;

Her maiden lips with life are warm,

And thought within her dwells—

Thought, holy as the light that lies

In the rapt martyr's lifted eyes.

Her home—'tis far away from her,

Its quiet porch is lone,

And the sunny wind no more shall stir

Its streamlet's silver tone.

The zephyrs there, their incense wreathe,

But, o'er her hair they shall not breathe.

Her sire reposeth in the wave,

Beneath an Indian sky;

The violets fringe her mother's grave,

And there, her sisters lie!

And we will waft to heaven our prayers,

When her pure dust is mix'd with theirs.