A Remembrance

I see thee still! thou art not dead, Though dust is mingled with thy form; The broken sunbeam hath not shed The final rainbow on the storm: In visions of the midnight deep, Thine accents through my bosom thrill Till joy’s fond impulse bids me weep,— For, wrapt in thought, I see thee still! I see thee still,—that cheek of rose,— Those lips with dewy fragrance wet,— That forehead in serene repose,— Those soul-lit eyes—I see them yet! Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead, Thou gracest still this earthly sphere; An influence still is round me shed, Like thine,—and yet thou art not here! Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom; No more thy smiles inspire delight, For thou art garnered in the tomb,— Rich harvest for that ruthless power Which hath me bound to bear his will: Yet, as in hope’s unclouded hour, Throned in my heart I see thee still.