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 ail 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!