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I would that I were
A dying tone,
Though the music were gone:
latest breath, And yield thee pleasure e'en in my death. . I would I might pass from this living tomb, Into the violet's sweetest perfume ; On the wings of the morning to thee I would fly, And mingle my soul with thy sweeter sigh.
My heart is bound
With a viewless chain,–
But I feel its pain.
There are ten thousand tones and signs
And form a strange intelligence Alike mysterious and intense ; Which link the burning chain that binds, Without their will, young hearts and minds, Conveying, as the electric wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire.
There is a love so fond, so true,
No art the magic tie can sever ; 'Tis ever beauteous, ever new ;
Its chain once link'd is link'd for ever.
There is a love, but passion's beam
Too fond, too warm, too bright to last, The frenzy of a fever'd dream,
That burns a moment, then is past.
'Tis like the lightning's lurid glare,
That streams its blaze of fatal light, Flames for an instant through the air
Then sinks away in deepest night.
There is a love whose feeling rolls
pure unruffled calmness on,
The meeting of congenial souls,
Of hearts whose currents flow in one.
It is a blessing that is felt
But by united minds that flow, As sunbeams into sunbeams melt,
To light a frozen world below.
There is a love that o'er the war
Of jarring passion pours its light, And sheds its influence like a star
That brightest burns in darkest night.
It is a love best known to those
Who hand in hand, amidst the strife Together have withstood their foes,
Together shared the storms of life.
It is so true, so fix'd, so strong,
It parts not with the parting breath ; In the soul's flight 'tis borne along,
And holds the heart's strings e'en in death.
'Tis never quench'd by sorrow's tide ;
No, 'tis a flame caught from above,A tie that death cannot divide ;
'Tis the bright torch of wedded love.
But there is one love, not of earth,
Though sullied by the streaming tear It is a star of heavenly birth,
And only shines unshaken there.
'Tis when this clay resigns its breath,
And the soul quits its frail abode,
M. A. BROWNE.
Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart
As if the very lips and eyes,
So beam'd on me thy speech and tone
Then come with me - if thou hast known
which thou hadst sworn
Come ! if the love thou bear'st for me
and fresh as mine for thee;
But if for me thou dost forsake
Then, fare thee well ! -I'd rather make
LOVE NURSED BY SOLITUDE.
Young Love, thou art belied: they speak of thee,