Song Poem by William Henry Leatham

Thou art not here, and yet thou art!
I hold thee pictured in my breast,
Nor can thine image e'er depart,
Until my soul shall sink to rest—

Shall sink to rest! how can that be ?
Dreams renew the day's illusion ;
Tis mine to love unchangingly,
Still love on to life's conclusion.

Oh Lady! o'er the Alpine snows,
My truant heart would often flee ;
Where nature's frozen Babel rose,
My love-sick heart would turn to thee-

Would turn to thee—as now it turns,
Tho' haply brighter glows the flame,
Which in my manlier bosom burns,
In all save that 'tis still the same.

Unutterably dear to me,
I hold one pledge since love began,
It speaks, methinks, as part of thee—
A ringlet and a talisman—

A talisman in hours like this,
When hope is sinking in distress,
Memorial of my whilome bliss,
To cheer the heart's dark wilderness.

The moon is full—but where am I ?
Alone beneath her silvery gleam !
And where art thou—perchance thine eye,
Is gazing too on yon pure beam.

The day is past—it sinks in night,
'Mid innocence and gaiety—
'Mid idle dreams—'mid visions bright,
Oh, Lady ! hast thou thought of me ?

How vain the thought! how idly vain !
And yet to hope my heart will cling—
Yes, clinging live—tho' rent in twain—
Sweet hope some flattering thought will bring.

Lady, forgive ! Oh! may'st thou be,
Possessed of all thy wishes seek—
May every blessing blessed to thee,
Bring smiles, not tears, upon thy cheek.

May flowers, not thorns, around thee spring,
Be ever thine a blissful lot;
Farewell! tho' now I cease to sing—
Forgetful one ! thou'rt not forgot!