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FOREST .MELODIES. |
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O'er his staff his form was bending, And his eye was almost cold,;
On the wind his white hairs streaming, Bitter tales of sorrow told.
0, how like the flowers I cherish, Flowers that blossom but to fade, * Are the hopes that bloom to perish, And the forms with sorrow weighed !
1848
THE PORTRAIT.
While gazmg on those pictiir'd eyes,
My heart disdains control; For in their depths a something lies
Which moves the inmost soul.
Upon those lips I look with bliss,
While musing "here alone; Thinking of their fond parting kiss,
And of their farewell tone.
0, let me with this treasure kneel
Low^at the Saviour's feet, And pray that both may ever feel
The same communion sweet!
And pray with trembling heart, my love, That He, who made thee mine,
May have His image in my breast More deeply fixed than thine. |
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