Yet I am weak--oh! how entirely weak, For one who may not love nor suffer more! Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek, And my heart bound as keenly as of yore, Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest, Which made the beautiful Italian shore, In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest, An Eden and a Paradise to me. Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope, In search of odours from the orange bowers? Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers? And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong 'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours, Making the summer one perpetual song? Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride I walked in joy thy grassy meads among, With that fair youthful vision by my side, In whose bright eyes I looked--and not in vain? O my adored angel! O my bride! Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain, My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem To wander with thee, hand in hand, again, By the bright margin of that flowing stream. I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet Than fancied music floating in a dream, Possess my being; from afar I greet The waving of thy garments in the glade, And the light rustling of thy fairy feet-- What time as one half eager, half afraid, Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue, And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed The secret of the heart from whence they sprung. Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven Gave up an angel beautiful and young, Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven: A bright Aurora for the starry sphere Where all is love, and even life forgiven. Bride of immortal beauty--ever dear! Dost thou await me in thy blest abode? While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here, And count each step along the rugged road; A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave, And eager to lay down my weary load! I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave. Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave, Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell, Retains within its mystic urn the hum Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell-- Old thoughts still haunt me--unawares they come Between me and my rest, nor can I make Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb. Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake! Nor wander back with sullen steps again; For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take In such a journey, nor endure the pain. The phantoms of the past are dead for thee; So let them ever uninvoked remain, And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free. Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago, Long since their blossoms withered on the tree: No second spring can come to make them blow, But in the silent winter of the grave They lie with blighted love and buried woe.