Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast,
From her tranquil sphere
Shall in vain be sped
O unforgotten voice, thy accents come,
They beat upon mine ear again,—
When the flower they flow for
A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall;
Like bright waves that fall
Of thought, such contrast strange,
Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill,
So sad, and with so wild a start
Strains of glad music at a funeral,—
So anxiously and painfully,
Shiver and die;
As the tears of sorrow
Those melancholy tones so sweet and still;
Mothers have shed—
On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully,
Yet could not break it.
Blew such a thrilling summons to my will,
And, oh! with such intolerable change
Did steal into mine ear;
Prayers that to-morrow
Lies frozen and dead—
Yet could not shake it;
On the lifeless margin of the sparkling ocean;
As the kindling glances,
Of a lonely mere,
To this deep-sobered heart,
So drearily and doubtfully,
With a lifelike motion
Which the bright moon lances
Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year
Like wanderers from the world's extremity,
Queen-like and clear,
A gush of sunbeams through a ruined hall;
At the sleepless waters
Bringing no rest;
In vain, all, all in vain,
Unto their ancient home!