I am all alone, and the visions that play
Round life's young days have passed away:
And the songs are hush'd that gladness sings,
And the hopes that I cherish'd have made them wings,
And the light of my heart is dimmed and gone,
And I sit in my sorrow-and all alone.
And the forms which I fondly loved are flown,
And friends have departed one by one,
And memory sits whole lonely hours,
And weaves her wreath of hope's faded flowers,
And weeps o'er the chaplet when no one is near,
To gaze on her grief, or to chide her tear.
And the home of my childhood is distant far,
And I walk in a land where strangers are,
And the looks that I meet, and the sounds that I hear
Are not light to my spirit, or song to my ear;
And sunshine is round me which I cannot see,
And eyes that beam kindness, but not for me.
And the song goes round, and the glowing smile,
But I am desolate all the while;
And forms are bright, and bosoms glad,
And nothing, I think, but my heart is sad,
And I seem like a blight in a region of bloom,
While I dwell in my own little circle of gloom.
I wander about, like a shadow of pain,
With a worm in my breast, and a spell on my brain, And I list, with a start, to the gushing of gladnessOh! how it grates on a bosom all sadness;
So I turn from a world where I never was known, To sit in my sorrow—and all alone.
Woman's Lobe.
Thy home is not so bright, ladye,
As it was wont to be:
Thine eyes have lost their light, ladye,
Thy laugh its ringing glee.
Thy step is sad and slow-
Thy faltering accents fail;
Alas! that tears should flow
Down cheeks so young and pale:
Thou wert not once so sad and strange;
Oh! what has wrought this wondrous change.
Mine eyes are like the moon, Pilgrim,
They shine with borrowed light;
My cheek, like flowers of noon, Pilgrim,
Grows pale with coming night.
My voice is like the bird
That greets the opening day:
My laugh is only heard
When this poor heart is gay:
Oh, when the sun has left the sky
The earth is dark-and so am I!"
"The sun is shining bright, ladye,
Down from the summier skies,
The flowers that sleep at night, ladye,
Now ope their smiling eyes.
The birds are singing now
With free exulting voice,
Nature is glad-and thou-
Why dost not thou rejoice?
Look up, and greet the sun's bright beam,
Feel that of night thou dost but dream."
"That dream is in my heart, Pilgrim.
It lieth there so deep,
It never will depart, Pilgrim,
Awake, nor yet in sleep,
A dream of severed ties,
Of love so fond, so vain,
Of words, and smiles, and sighs,
That will not come again:
My sun, alas! was not in heaven!
Its light from human eyes was given.
Passing Away.
Was it the chime of a tiny bell,
That came so sweet to my dreaming earLike the silvery tones of a fairy's shell,
That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear. When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep; She dispensing her silvery light,
And he his notes as silvery quite,
While the boatman listens and ships his oar,
To catch the music that comes from the shore;
Hark! the notes on my ear that play,
Are set to words: as they float, they say,
"Passing away! passing away !"
But no; it was not a fairy shell,
Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear,
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell,
Striking the hour that filled my ear,
As I lay in my dream: yet was it a chime
That told of the flow of the stream of time.
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung,
And a fairy like child, for a pendulum swung,
As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring
That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing,
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet,
And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"
Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told
Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow, And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold Seemed to point to the girl below.
And lo! she had changed:-in a few short hours,
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers,
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung
This way and that, as she dancing, swung
In the fulness of grace; and of womanly pride,
That told me she soon was to be a bride;
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day,
In the same sweet tone I heard her say,
Passing away! passing away!"
While I gazed at that fair one's cheek a shade
Of thought, or care stole softly over,
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover.
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush
Had something lost of its brilliant blush;
And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels,
That marched so calmly round above her,
Was a little dimmed, as when evening steals
Upon noon's hot face; yet one could not but love her, For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"
While yet I looked, what a change there came !
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan,
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet just as busily kept she on;
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust
The wheels above her were eaten with rust;
The hands that over the dial swept,
Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone
From the shrivelled lips of that aged one,
Let me never forget till my dying day,
The tone, or the burden of her lay—
"Passing away! passing away.
Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow,
Yet, doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
"I am content to die-but oh! not now.'
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing,
Not while the bright flowers round my foot-
steps wreathe;
Spare me great God! lift up my drooping brow,
I am content to die-but oh! not now!
The spring hath ripened into summer time,
The season's viewless boundary is past,
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime;
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be my last?
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