Wilt Thou Not Weep For Me? Poem by William Billington

COMPANION of my early days,
Bright angel of my heart,
We've lived and loved through sheen and
shade,
Alas! that we should part!
We've trod the daisied breast of June,
And sat in cool retreat
Where roses bloomed above our heads,
And violets at our feet;
We've heard the mellow cuckoo sing,
The throstle clear and loud,
And drank the breeze streamed through the
trees,
Like sunshine through the cloud;
We've felt the fiery pulse of love,
And pictured o'er and o'er
A happy home and years of bliss,
Hearts trembling to the core;
We've had our youthful breasts o'erbrimmed
With boundless joy and gladness,
And keenly know how near akin
Are ecstasy and madness;
We've seen the summer's sun go down,
And yielded to the charms
Of the dim mysterious twilight hour,
Locked in each other's arms;
We know that night comes after day,
That Winter treads the track
Of Summer; days and years go round,
But youth will not come back;
'Tis brief as bright, soon snatched by Time,
And Sorrow fills the cup
Where Joy was wont to sparkle; and
Experience drinks it up.
In heart I am an infant yet,
A child's affections too
Are mine, though manhood sage hath set
Its seal upon my brow.
Though joys have fled as time hath sped,
And death is drawing near,
Yet memories of the golden Past
Will gild the gloomy bier.
Since Fortune's ruthless hand did rend
Our youthful hearts in twain,
And gold, the god of this wise world,
Broke friendship's brittle chain,
I've bowed to other beauties, love,
But, oh! it could not be
That toil, or time, or chance, or change,
Could wean my heart from thee.
I know thou art not happy, but
I know thy pride too well
To deem thou wouldst confess the fact,
Though pained with pangs of hell!
For I am but of humble birth,
And thou of high degree,
Then, oh! how were it possible
To grant thou couldst love me?
Since thou wert made a merchandise
Down Fashion's stream to glide,
Like the wreck of some proud vessel at
The mercy of the tide,
As I through Life's lone wilderness
Have sighed and sought for thee,
When I am cold and coffined, love,
Wilt thou not weep for me?