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As if these waited on thy golden lot,-
Or worse than even this, how can they think
These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou
brood With thy sweet wings furl'd—but in solitude !
GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.
« Leave me not ! ” was still
They crown me with the glistening crown
Borne from a deathless tree;
Oh, Love! forsake me not!
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that
Shed by thy gentle eyes,
A bright new birth!
Thence gleams the path of morning
Over the kindling hills a sunny zone !
wood-recess Is fill'd with loveliness, Each bower to ring-doves and dim violets known.
I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile ;
Too pure, too spirit-like it seems,
I clasp it with th' alloy
Of fear midst quivering joy,
The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee ; The world's cold breath would quench the starry
fire In my deep soul - a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal'd would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free !
Like a shrine 'mid rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled ;
But a mighty master dead;
Such would my spirit be,
Bereft of thee !
Leave me not, Love! or, if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers “Come!" Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love!
It is the soft and silent hour
Oh! never sounds in Beauty's ear
May slighted woman turn, And as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave, steal from her rosy
cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how,