The Lost One

COME to the grave--the silent grave! and dream Of a light, happy voice--so full of joy, That those who heard her laugh, would laugh again, Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit; And pause in their own converse, to look round, Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone. Come to the grave--the lone dark grave! and dream Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul, Eyes which, with one bright flash from their dark lids, Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of others; Or, with a full entire tenderness, The pure expression of all-perfect love, (Of woman's love, which is for you alone, While your's is for yourself)--gave in that look The promise of a life of meek affection. Come to the grave--the mouldering grave! and dream Of a fair form that glided over earth One of its happiest creatures:--to her cheek The lightest word might bring the blushing blood In pure carnation;--down her graceful neck, The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly, Untortured by the cunning hand of art: And on her brow, bright purity and joy, Twin sisters, sate,--as on a holy throne. Come yet unto the grave--the still, damp grave! And dream of a young heart that beat with life, And all life's best affections; of a heart Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin-- Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love: And, having dreamed of such a lovely being-- So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek-- Having thus conjured up a form of love In thine own pausing and regretful mind;-- A vision will be present to thy soul, A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost!