There is gloom on thy brow, there is grief in thine eye, There is night in thy heart, on thy lip is a sigh, And thy summer of beauty has faded away, Like a dream from the brain, like a leaf from the spray Oh! dark must the cloud of thy sorrow have been, And mighty the fetter that bound thee, and keen As the fangs of despair, as the arrows of Death, As the terrors that rain from the hurricane's breath, Thus to wilder thy brain, thus to wither thy brow, As thou standest before me all tremblingly now. Thou art come to my hall with the sound of the storm; Oh, the tears of his pity flow fast from thy form, And the beams on thy face but a shadow impart Of the strength of the woe that is wringing thy heart. In the silence that midnight around me hath thrown, In moments the brightest my bosom hath known, In the gloom of the tomb, on the slope of the wave, Where the green hills grew red with the life of the brave, In its desert of sorrow, its garden of bliss, My heart hath dreamed never of meeting like this! My Inez, the love of my manhood, my bride, Who art won from the arms of the grave to my side, From the last hour thy brow to my bosom was prest, Have thy tones and thy form been a shrine in my breast; Thou hast haunted my steps when the breathings of spring, The light swallow and bee to the water-brink bring; In the calm of the hills, by the blue rushing streams, I have gazed in thine eye through the mist of my dreams; Thou art come with the storm and the banners of night, Pale Inez, the love of my youth, my delight! Like a wreck from the wave, like a shade from the tomb, Thou art now at my side, and thy step in my room, But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone, There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone, And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine Has died with the lustre that made it divine. Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs; By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine, Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine! Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour-- May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower; They have darkened my soul, they have furrowed my brow, But my manhood no more to that sceptre shall bow!