Memories

ONCE more, once more, my Mary dear,
 I sit by that lone stream,
Where first within thy timid ear
 I breathed love’s burning dream.
The birds we loved still tell their tale        
 Of music, on each spray,
And still the wild-rose decks the vale—
 But thou art far away.

In vain thy vanished form I seek,
 By wood and stream and dell,        
And tears of anguish bathe my cheek
 Where tears of rapture fell;
And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers
 Dear thoughts my soul employ,
For in the memories of past hours        
 There is a mournful joy.

Upon the air thy gentle words
 Around me seemed to thrill,
Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords
 When all the winds are still,        
Or like the low and soul-like swell
 Of that wild spirit-tone,
Which haunts the hollow of the bell
 When its sad chime is done.

I seem to hear thee speak my name        
 In sweet low murmurs now;
I seem to feel thy breath of flame
 Upon my cheek and brow;
On my cold lips I feel thy kiss,
 Thy heart to mine is laid—        
Alas, that such a dream of bliss
 Like other dreams must fade!