Why didst thou leave me thus? Had memory No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked In spirit as I am? Was there no spell Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep My image trembling there? Is there no charm In strong and high devotion such as mine To win thee to my side once more? Must I Be cast forever off for brighter forms And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still. Love will not, cannot perish in my heart— ’Twill linger there forever. Even now In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour Of passion’s unforgotten tryst, I hush The raging tumult of my soul, and still The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o’er The western sky recalls some by-gone joy, That we have shared together, and my soul Is love’s and memory’s. As here I sit In loneliness, the thought comes o’er my heart How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount O’erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt The spirit of a holy love bedew Our hearts’ own budding blossoms. There I drank The wild, o’ermastering tide of eloquence That flowed from thy o’erwrought and burning soul. There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now Beside me lies a bud, the little bud Thou gav’st me in the glad, bright summer-time, Telling me ’twas the emblem of a hope That soon would burst to glorious life within Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud Is now all pale and withered, and the hope Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast Forever forth from thine. They tell me, too, My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas! There is no more a spirit-fire within To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams And visions all have died within my soul, And I am sad and lone and desolate; And yet at times, when I behold thee near, A something like the dear old feeling stirs Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb Of withered memories one pale, pale rose, To bloom a moment there, and cast around Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon It vanishes away, as if it were A mockery, the spectre of a flower; I quell my struggling sighs and wear a smile; But, ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs Tells of a broken heart. ’Tis said that thou Dost ever shine the gayest ’mid the gay, That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls, That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles, Thou whisperest love’s delicious flatteries; And if my name is spoken, a light sneer Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,