The Ringlet
OH! treasured thus by passion’s slave,
Dear relic of the bygone year;
Say, what remains of her who gave?
The vain regret—the useless tear.
The clasping hands—the throbbing brow—
The murmuring of that shadowy word,
To which had answered once—oh! now,
Why is that light quick step unheard?
What in those syllables is found,
That such a start of woe can claim?
A word is but an empty sound,—
Alas! it is—it was—her name!
It was—yes, she was once! as gay,
As full of life, as aught that lives;
The breath—the life—hath passed away,
But not the pang her memory gives.
Bright tress! thy beauty bringeth now
A thousand dreams of rapture gone;
Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow,
The low, light laughter of her tone.
Gazing on thee, again she stands
Before me, as in days of old;
With all her young head’s shining bands,
And all its wavy curls of gold.
Till as I view thee, silken tress,
I feel within my suffering heart,—
'Tis all which now my sight can bless,
All that of her will not depart.
Oh! thou that wert life’s dearest prize,
That now art but a thought of pain;
Why do thy tones—thy laughing eyes—
Rise up to wring my soul again?
I roam in vain:—the sun that beams
Is still the sun we looked upon;
My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams,
Seeks still for thine to clasp its own.
My heart resists all time—all change,
And finds no other form so dear.
My memory, wheresoe’er I range,
Clings to the spot where thou wert near.
Change!—thou wert all life’s scenery:
To me, the billowy, bounding wave—
The wide green earth—the far blue sky,
Form but the landscape of thy grave!
Oh! bitter is their boon of life
Who cannot hope—who may not die—
I linger in a world of strife,
Whilst thou art in the happy sky!
I envy thee the peace thou hast,
And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow,
That He who made thee all thou wast,
Would make me all—that thou art now!
