174

THE LADY TO HER LOVER'S PICTURE.

Thy heart doth wrong me, if it hath not told
That she who loved of old

So deeply, still awaits thee, loving yet:

She loves, she watches-why dost thou forget?

Upon what pleasant shore or summer waters
Dost thou repose? Hath Time,

Or the dark witchery of the Indian daughters,
Or some luxurious clime,-

The natural love of change, or graver thought,

Or new ambition, all my misery brought?

Why art thou absent? Is not all thy toil
Done on that burning soil?

Are thy dreams unaccomplished? Let them go :
She, who stood by thee once, in want and wo,
And would have dared all dangers, hand in hand,
Hath risen! A maiden peeress of the land,
She woos thee to behold and share her state,
And be by fortune, as by nature, great.

Still am I young! but wrinkled age will steal
Upon me unawares, should'st thou delay;
And Time will kiss these auburn locks to grey;
And grief will quench mine eyes; and I shall feel
That thou can'st love me not (all beauty flown),
And so I shall depart and die alone.

And then thou'lt hear no more of one whose course
Hath been so dark; until too-late remorse,

THE PORTRAIT

Half wakening love, mall lead then s me care lav
CLAY,
To where the marble a les my mov

And there thout react by a thuat pana

The story of her wheel and in va...!

THE PORTRAIT.

Can cheat remembrance of her lone at how

Still with sad constancy to ther I tuin,

Like Sorrow in ring or hol

In mute abstraction ging on cuch

That my heart worships in this angol fan o
The faultless outline, and the clades 11 han,
Shadowing the feature, eloq lan

The deep blue eyes, which touchsiz tego
The hallowed charm of '60s wh

(Nature's sweet tall man for wor

Speak to my soul

Formed by exam

Mark the fair pram of

Each virtue how

"

174

THE LADY TO HER LOVER'S PICTURE.

Thy heart doth wrong me, if it hath not told
That she who loved of old

So deeply, still awaits thee, loving yet :

She loves, she watches-why dost thou forget?

Upon what pleasant shore or summer waters
Dost thou repose? Hath Time,

Or the dark witchery of the Indian daughters,
Or some luxurious clime,-

The natural love of change,-or graver thought,

Or new ambition, all my misery brought?

Why art thou absent? Is not all thy toil
Done on that burning soil?

Are thy dreams unaccomplished? Let them go :
She, who stood by thee once, in want and wo,
And would have dared all dangers, hand in hand,

Hath risen! A maiden peeress of the land,
She woos thee to behold and share her state,
And be by fortune, as by nature, great.

Still am I young! but wrinkled age will steal
Upon me unawares, should'st thou delay;
And Time will kiss these auburn locks to grey;
And grief will quench mine eyes; and I shall feel
That thou can'st love me not (all beauty flown),
And so I shall depart and die alone.

And then thou❜lt hear no more of one whose course
Hath been so dark; until too-late remorse,

=

176

A MOTHER TO HER ABSENT SON.

TO A PORTRAIT.

HALL I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

SHAKESPEARE.

A MOTHER TO HER ABSENT SON.

WHERE art thou, my beloved son?

Where art thou, worse to me than dead!
Oh, find me, prosperous or undone !

Or if the grave be now thy bed,

Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?