The Lost One
COME to the grave—the silent grave! and dream
Of a light, happy voice—so full of joy,
That those who heard her laugh, would laugh again,
Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit;
And pause in their own converse, to look round,
Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone.
Come to the grave—the lone dark grave! and dream
Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul,
Eyes which, with one bright flash from their dark lids,
Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of others;
Or, with a full entire tenderness,
The pure expression of all-perfect love,
(Of woman’s love, which is for you alone,
While your’s is for yourself)—gave in that look
The promise of a life of meek affection.
Come to the grave—the mouldering grave! and dream
Of a fair form that glided over earth
One of its happiest creatures:—to her cheek
The lightest word might bring the blushing blood
In pure carnation;—down her graceful neck,
The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly,
Untortured by the cunning hand of art:
And on her brow, bright purity and joy,
Twin sisters, sate,—as on a holy throne.
Come yet unto the grave—the still, damp grave!
And dream of a young heart that beat with life,
And all life’s best affections; of a heart
Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin—
Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love:
And, having dreamed of such a lovely being—
So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek—
Having thus conjured up a form of love
In thine own pausing and regretful mind;—
A vision will be present to thy soul,
A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one
Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost!
