the death-song.
109
Mother, mother! I do not hear
Your voice—but his,—oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
His clasping arms are round me still.
Your voice—but his,—oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
His clasping arms are round me still.
Mother, mother! unbind my vest,
Upon my heart lies his first token:
Now lay me in my narrow nest,
Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.
Upon my heart lies his first token:
Now lay me in my narrow nest,
Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.
IMPROMPTU.
You say you're glad I write—oh, say not so!
My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well;
And when the numbers freely from it flow,
Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.
My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well;
And when the numbers freely from it flow,
Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.
Castalia, fam'd of yore,—the spring divine,
Apollo's smile upon its current wears:
Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,
To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.
Apollo's smile upon its current wears:
Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,
To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.
