EFFUSION II.

M ARIA ! Oh, Maria! my sweet babe! — —
But ah! she hears not. Vainly that lov'd name
These lips reverberate — vainly these fond eyes
Roll round, in asking gaze, and, missing thee,
Find nought but vacancy. The budding Spring
That, in profuse luxuriancy, adorns
Mountain and vale — the ever-murmuring brook,
And choir of Nature's songsters charm no more,
Nor soothe my bosom's sadness. Thou art gone,
Who wert my spring of comfort — On thy cheek
Bloom'd fairer hopes than ever vernal gale
Wak'd in the May-tide morning — Purer thou —
More sweetly playful, in thy sportive wiles,
Than Cambria's dimpling rills. Thy infant voice
Than birds was more melodious, when they tune
Their softest love notes. Ah, in Nature's store
Is there aught beauteous — aught that Sense can prize,
Or Fancy hope to feed on, but must hence
Renew my keen affliction? — Thou art gone! —
And I in vernal scenes, henceforth, must trace
Nought, but the dire remembrance of thy loss. —