Felicia Hemans

“ When the fawn awakes, in the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mounts, with the breeze of morn?
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?—
Lovely thou sleepest—yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes!
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see;
—When will the hour of thy rising be?
Not when the fawn wakes,—not when the lark,
On the crimson cloud of the morn, floats dark! ”

“ Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie,
⁠Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,
⁠Like dark eyes filled with sleep,
And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky.
⁠Bring me their buds, to shed
⁠Around my dying bed,
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose;
⁠For I, in sooth, depart
⁠With a reluctant heart,
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.
⁠Fain would I stay with thee,—
⁠Alas! this must not be ”

“ Now, in thy morn, forget not Him
From whom each pure thought springs!
So,—in thy onward vale of tears,
Where'er thy path may be,
When strength hath bowed to evil years,—
He will remember thee! ”