Etheline
The heart that once was rich with light,And happy in your grace,Now lieth cold beneath the scornThat gathers on your face;And every joy it knew before,And every templed dream,Is paler than the dying flashOn yonder mountain stream.The soul, regretting foundered blissAmid the wreck of years,Hath mourned it with intensityToo deep for human tears!
The forest fadeth underneathThe blast that rushes by—The dripping leaves are white with death,But Love will never die!We both have seen the starry mossThat clings where Ruin reigns,And one must know his lonely breastAffection still retains;Through all the sweetest hopes of life,That clustered round and round,Are lying now, like withered things,Forsaken—on the ground.
’Tis hard to think of what we were,And what we might have been,Had not an evil spirit creptAcross the tranquil scene:Had fervent feelings in your soulNot failed nor ceased to shineAs pure as those existing on,And burning still in mine.Had every treasure at your feetThat I was wont to pour,Been never thrown like worthless weedsUpon a barren shore!
The bitter edge of grief has passed,I would not now upbraid;Or count to you the broken vows,So often idly made!I would not cross your path to chaseThe falsehood from your brow—I know, with all that borrowed light,You are not happy now:Since those that once have trampled downAffection’s early claim,Have lost a peace they need not hopeTo find on earth again.