There is a voice I shall hear no more:
There are tones whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odors of spring were they —
Precious and rich — but they died away:
They came like peace to my heart and ear —
Never, again will they murmur here:
They have gone, like the blush of a summer morn —
Like a crimson cloud, through the sunset borne.
There were eyes, that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see:
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow — untaught by art:
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring,
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were fill'd with love that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose;
And lips I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and blest my brain
With raptures that never may dawn again:
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed —
Alas, for the doom of the early dead!
Alas, for the clod that is resting now,
On those slumbering eyes — on that faded brow!
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom —
For the lips that are dumb in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone —
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone:
Alas, for the hopes that with thee have died —
Oh, loved-one! would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear:
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile of sweetness untold I see,
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm,
My arm embraceth thy yielding form:
Then I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom — thou art noThere!
Oh, once the summer to me was bright —
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light;
There was bliss in existence, when thou wert nigh —
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh:
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest;
A sabbath of blessings was in my breast:
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest, of all things, to heaven above.
Now thou art laid in that voiceless hall,
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
In that tranquil and holy place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast:
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid —
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin-lid:
All that was lovely to me is there —
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!
There are tones whose music for me is o'er;
Sweet as the odors of spring were they —
Precious and rich — but they died away:
They came like peace to my heart and ear —
Never, again will they murmur here:
They have gone, like the blush of a summer morn —
Like a crimson cloud, through the sunset borne.
There were eyes, that late were lit up for me,
Whose kindly glance was a joy to see:
They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart,
Untouched by sorrow — untaught by art:
Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring,
When birds in the vernal branches sing;
They were fill'd with love that hath passed with them,
And my lyre is breathing their requiem.
I remember a brow, whose serene repose
Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose;
And lips I remember, whose dewy smile,
As I mused on their eloquent power the while,
Sent a thrill to my bosom, and blest my brain
With raptures that never may dawn again:
Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed —
Alas, for the doom of the early dead!
Alas, for the clod that is resting now,
On those slumbering eyes — on that faded brow!
Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom —
For the lips that are dumb in the noisome tomb;
Their melody broken, their fragrance gone —
Their aspect cold as the Parian stone:
Alas, for the hopes that with thee have died —
Oh, loved-one! would I were by thy side!
Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear:
I hear thy voice in the twilight air;
Thy smile of sweetness untold I see,
When the visions of evening are borne to me;
Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm,
My arm embraceth thy yielding form:
Then I wake in a world that is sad and drear,
To feel in my bosom — thou art noThere!
Oh, once the summer to me was bright —
The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light;
There was bliss in existence, when thou wert nigh —
There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh:
Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest;
A sabbath of blessings was in my breast:
My heart was full of a sense of love,
Likest, of all things, to heaven above.
Now thou art laid in that voiceless hall,
Where my budding raptures have perished all;
In that tranquil and holy place of rest,
Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast:
Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid —
Thy brow is concealed by the coffin-lid:
All that was lovely to me is there —
Mournful is life, and a load to bear!