MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
239
Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.
ON * * * *
Think not of it, sweet one, so;—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any—any where.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,—
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then—it is gone—
Oh! 'twas born to die!
Still so pale? then dearest weep
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.
