Memories

Once more, once more, my Mary dear,   I sit by that lone stream, Where first within thy timid ear   I breathed love’s burning dream. The birds we loved still tell their tale   Of music, on each spray, And still the wild-rose decks the vale—   But thou art far away. In vain thy vanished form I seek,   By wood and stream and dell, And tears of anguish bathe my cheek   Where tears of rapture fell; And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers   Dear thoughts my soul employ, For in the memories of past hours   There is a mournful joy. Upon the air thy gentle words   Around me seemed to thrill, Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords   When all the winds are still, Or like the low and soul-like swell   Of that wild spirit-tone, Which haunts the hollow of the bell   When its sad chime is done. I seem to hear thee speak my name   In sweet low murmurs now; I seem to feel thy breath of flame   Upon my cheek and brow; On my cold lips I feel thy kiss,   Thy heart to mine is laid— Alas, that such a dream of bliss   Like other dreams must fade!