Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 039.djvu/498

But I—I read my doom aright,
    I snatched a few glad hours,
Then where will be the past delight—
    And where my gathered flowers?

Gone—gone for ever! let them go;
    The present is my meed—
Aye, let me worship, ere I know
    The falsehood of my creed.

The time may come—they say it must—
    When thou, my idol now,
Like all we treasure and we trust,
    Will mock the votive vow.

And when the temple's on the ground—
    The altar overthrown—
Too late the bitter moral's found,—
    The folly was our own.

It matters not, my heart is full
    With present hopes and fears,
The future cannot quite annul—
    Let them be bought by tears.

Though sorrow, disbelief, and blame
    May load the fallen shrine;
To think that once it bore thy name
    Will make it still divine.

And such it was—for it was love's;
    And love its heaven brings,
And from life's daily path removes
    All other meaner things;

And calls from out the common heart
    Its music, and its fire;
Like that the early hours impart
    To Memnon's sculptured lyre.

A touch of light—a tone of song—
    The sweet enchantment's o'er;
The thrilling heart and lute ere long
    Confess the spell no more.

The music from the heart is gone;
    The light has left the sky;
And time again flows calmly on,
    The haunted hour past by.

And thus with love the charmed earth
    Grows actual, cold, and drear;
But that sweet phantasy was worth
    All else most precious here.

'Mid the dark web that life must weave,
    'Twill linger in the mind
As angels spread their wings, yet leave
    The trace of heaven behind.

Ah! let the heart that worships thee
    By every change be proved:
Its dearest memory will be
    To know that once it loved.L. E. L.