In vain--ah me!--in vain, with murmured charm
Of love--inwoven sounds, would I recall
The long--forgotten art--in vain implore
At noon the colouring of the morning heavens!--
Glad Words, that once as with a robe of light
Would meet the coming Fancies, where are they?
And where, oh where are they, the angel guests?
Why have they gone, or wherefore did they come?
And yet, methinks, they are not far remote,
But that mine eye is dim and sees them not;--
But that mine heart is dead and does not feel;
Where is the music of the spirit gone?
Where now the heart that never knew a care--
That saw, in all things round, Love, only Love?
--Gone with the hues of morning--with the hopes
Of boyhood--with the glories of the spring;--
Gone with the dead--the unreturning dead!

In vain--in vain--the Spirit will not come!
Yet I have watched each stirring of the heart,
Till Sorrow, self--amused, smiles playfully,
Till Fancies vague seem gifted with strange life,
Surprise the ear with voices of their own,
And shine distinct, and fair, and shadowless,
Self--radiant, on a self--illumined stage,
Pure Forms, whose Being is the magic light
In which they move--all beauty! How it hangs
Enamoured round them! In what tender folds
The thin veil, flowing with the sportive breeze
Of dallying thought, returns, and fondly stirs
The amber ringlets o'er each little brow,
Fans softly the blue veins--and lingering lies
Trembling and happy on the kindred cheek!

In vain--in vain! They are not what they were!
The lights are dim,--the pageant fades away,
Lost on the disenchanted heart and eye;
Cold, icy cold, they glimmer--idly play
With languid feelings--feeble are the hues,
And faint the failing hand, that fears to trace
Forms seldom seen--seen only in still hours,
When dreams are passing into dream--like thought,
And, for a little moment, sleep the cares
That vex with pain, and each day grieve and wound
The God within, disquieting man's heart!

Lady, forgive these broken images,--
Forgive the wiles of Grief, that fain would smile,
And so she plays with her dead brother's toys,
The cheerful boy who died in infancy;
Or wilt thou smile with me, and gaze with me
--As in the peaceful twilight of a dream
That mingles death and life,--on Mirth and Grief?

One happy human bosom was their home,
And Mirth, with rosy lips and bold bright eyes,
That rolled, and laughed, and knew not where to rest,
Kissed off the tears from his pale sister's face;
'Twas sweet to see her smiling playfully,
While he, a masquer blythe, in tragic weeds
Robed his light limbs, and hid his laughing face,
And moved with pensive mien and solemn pomp
Of measured gesture;--'twas a part played well,
Yet half betrayed by the capricious voice,
That could not long uphold the lofty tone;
And by the glances of the conscious eye,
Where tell--tale smiles would slily still peep out;
While, half deluded by his own quaint humour,
And vain withal, no doubt, the lively elf
Looked round for praise;--but then he felt the tear
Come sudden to disturb the quivering eye,
And fall in fire upon the burning cheek!
Lady, forgive these broken images--
That, like the dew--drops from a shaken flower
Fall cold, and shine, and are for ever lost,
Seen only in the breeze that scatters them.