Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/293

Still, Bertha, gaze!—on yon gray tower,
At evening's last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flushed the clear seas with rainbow-dyes,
Whose warm suffusions glowed and passed,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last;
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seemed a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,
More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest,
Would steal in silence o'er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh,
That softly breathes the spirit's harmony!
—Ah! ne'er again shall hours to thee be given,
Of joy on earth—so near allied to Heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?