Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Last Song
THE LAST SONG.
"Sing to me love, thy voice is sweet!
It falls upon my ear
Like summer-gales o'er breathing flowers,
And makes even sickness dear;
Sing to me, love, the hour is meet,
This twilight hour serene,
Too dim to let officious care
Intrude high thoughts between.
Sing to me, love, the time is short,
I feel my strength decay,
The ties that bound my soul so fast
Melt like a dream away."
She sang to cheer his pensive mood
A deep and tuneful strain,
The changeless bliss of heaven how pure,
And earthly joys how vain.
At first, all tremulous and faint,
Awoke the warbling tone,
Then clearer, higher rose, and caught
An ardour not its own;
Strength, strength, as for an hour of need,
As if her lip were made
The harp on which some spirit-hand
Celestial measures play'd.
It ceased, and from the casement near
The curtain's fold she drew,
And the young moon mid bowering leaves
Look'd lone and peaceful through;
Where was the sigh of tender praise?
Love's ne'er forgotten word?
Sleeps he? How pale! Alas, no breath
Her sweeping tresses stirr'd.
A cry broke forth. He heeds it not!
Young wife, thy lot was blest,
To charm the pang of mortal pain,
And sing him to his rest;
Entranced the listening spirit soar'd
Heavenward on balmy air,
And pass'd from love and music here,
To love and music there.