But the love-lorn nightingale
Melteth not away;
She doth but with longing tones
Chant her plaintive lay.
I am, too, a nightingale,
Songless though I sing;
'Tis my pen that speaks, though ne'er
In the ear it ring.
Beaming images of thought
Doth the pen portray;
But without thy gentle smile
Lifeless e'er are they.
As thy look falls on the leaf,
It begins to sing,
And the prize that's due to love
In her ear doth ring.
Like a Memmon's statue now
Every letter seems,
Which in music wakes, when kissed
By the morning's beams.
* * * * *
"HE CAME TO MEET ME"[52] (1821)
He came to meet me
In rain and thunder;
My heart 'gan beating
In timid wonder.
Could I guess whither
Thenceforth together
Our path should run, so long asunder?
He came to meet me
In rain and thunder,
With guile to cheat me--
My heart to plunder.
Was't mine he captured?
Or his I raptured?
Half-way both met, in bliss and wonder!
He came to meet me
In rain and thunder;
Spring-blessings greet me
Spring-blossoms under.
What though he leave me?
No partings grieve me--
No path can lead our hearts asunder.
* * * * *
THE INVITATION[53] (1821)
Thou, thou art rest
And peace of soul--
Thou woundst the breast
And makst it whole.
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