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'Tis silent all!_but on my ear
The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still, Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake:
Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray
That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.
ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more?
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing That smiles with all, and weeps
with none. It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou’rt nothing, all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill ;
The heart—the heart is lonely still !
4. On many a lone and lovely night
It sooth’d to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye :
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “Now Thyrza gazes on that moon”
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, « 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said,
“ That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!
My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still ! Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.