A Love Song. — From the French of Alphonse de Lamartine
TIME with his jealous icy blast
Will wither all your charms, like sweet flowers past
And dead in winter’s tomb;
Till soft, red lips are kissless, and the joy
They now can give, tho’ now, alas, too coy,
Has perish’d with their bloom.
Yet when your eyes, veil’d in a cloud of tears,
Shall mourn the rigour of the fleeting years,
And see each grace depart,
When in the past, as in a stream, you gaze,
And seek the lovely form of other days,
Look rather in my heart;
There will your beauty flourish years untold,
There will my loyalty watch you as of old,
And keep you still the same;
Just as a golden lamp some holy maid
Might shelter with her hand, while thro’ the shade
She bears the trembling flame.
Oh, when Death smiling comes, as come he must,
And shatters our twin torches in the dust,
A stronger love shall bloom;
Then shall my last sweet resting-place be thine,
And your soft hand clasp’d tenderly in mine,
In our last bed, the tomb.
Or, rather, darling, let us fly away,
Just as upon some glorious autumn day
Two loving swans might rise,
And, still caressing, leave their wonted nest,
And seek for brighter lands, and climes more blest,
And fuller, deeper skies!
Harry Curwen.