And Love is gone;-- I have seen him come, I have seen him, too, depart, Leaving desolate his home, His bright home in my heart. I am alone! Cold, cold is his hearth-stone, Wide open stands the door; The frolic and the gentle one Shall I see no more, no more? At the fount the bowl is broken, I shall drink it not again, All my longing prayers are spoken, And felt, ah, woe is me, in vain! Oh, childish hopes and childish fancies, Whither have ye fled away? I long for you in mournful trances, I long for you by night and day; Beautiful thoughts that once were mine, Might I but win you back once more, Might ye about my being twine And cluster as ye did of yore! O! do not let me pray in vain-- How good and happy I should be, How free from every shade of pain, If ye would come again to me! O, come again! come, come again! Hath the sun forgot its brightness, Have the stars forgot to shine, That they bring not their wonted lightness To this weary heart of mine? 'Tis not the sun that shone on thee, Happy childhood, long ago-- Not the same stars silently Looking on the same bright snow-- Not the same that Love and I Together watched in days gone by! No, not the same, alas for me! Would God that those who early went To the house dark and low, For whom our mourning heads were bent, For whom our steps were slow; O, would that these alone had left us, That Fate of these alone had reft us, Would God indeed that it were so! Many leaves too soon must wither, Many flowers too soon must die, Many bright ones wandering hither, We know not whence, we know not why, Like the leaves and like the flowers, Vanish, ere the summer hours, That brought them to us, have gone by. O for the hopes and for the feelings, Childhood, that I shared with thee-- The high resolves, the bright revealings Of the soul's might, which thou gav'st me, Gentle Love, woe worth the day, Woe worth the hour when thou wert born, Woe worth the day thou fled'st away-- A shade across the wind-waved corn-- A dewdrop falling from the leaves Chance-shaken in a summer's morn! Woe, woe is me! my sick heart grieves, Companionless and anguish-worn! I know it well, our manly years Must be baptized in bitter tears; Full many fountains must run dry That youth has dreamed for long hours by, Choked by convention's siroc blast Or drifting sands of many cares; Slowly they leave us all at last, And cease their flowing unawares. THE BOBOLINK. Anacreon of the meadow, Drunk with the joy of spring! Beneath the tall pine's voiceful shadow I lie and drink thy jargoning; My soul is full with melodies, One drop would overflow it, And send the tears into mine eyes-- But what car'st thou to know it? Thy heart is free as mountain air, And of thy lays thou hast no care, Scattering them gayly everywhere, Happy, unconscious poet!