To Helene

I sent a ring—a little band Of emerald and ruby stone, And bade it, sparkling on thy hand, Tell thee sweet tales of one Whose constant memory Was full of loveliness, and thee. A shell was graven on its gold,— 'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings— To Helene once it would have told More than was ever told by rings: But now all 's past and gone, Her love is buried with that stone. Thou shalt not see the tears that start From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; Thou shalt not know the beating heart, Ever a victim and a child: Yet Helene, love, believe The heart that never could deceive. I'll hear thy voice of melody In the sweet whispers of the air; I'll see the brightness of thine eye In the blue evening's dewy star; In crystal streams thy purity; And look on Heaven to look on thee.