I SAW but once that lovely one,
Nor need I see her twice to love;
She broke upon me like the dawn,
And o'er my soul her magic wove—
Yea, forced the lion stern to own
Himself the captive of the dove.

She brought the morn, she left the night;
Nor strove I to throw off the chain;
But rather felt a sweet delight
To intermingle with the pain
That made my heart's repose a blight,
Till madness ruled my thought's domain.

By night I sought a solitude,
And gave unto the winds a grief
That struggled like the lava flood,
That boils and struggles for relief;
And night still left me in a mood
Unto the voice of reason deaf.

The radiant planets in their flight,
And she the quiet Queen of heaven,
With glory garmented the night;
But not to them the power was given
To kill, but rather nurse the blight
By which afar my peace was driven.

Yet wished I not the sun to rise,
For then the world were up, and then
Were I exposed to wistful eyes,
And questions bold of forward men,
Who deem themselves both good and wise,
Yet neither know nor pity pain.

And what on earth—ay, what in hell
Can be more racking to the thought,
Than that our pangs unspeakable
Should, disregarded, be as nought
Or look's upon with looks that tell
In vain would sympathy be sought?

The magic vision fled, and so
Have all those precious feelings, all!
Which gave to life a golden glow—
Which made a joy this earthly ball—
And now, what's left to me? what, oh!
What, but a cup of very gall!