ART thou not near me, with thine earnest eyes,
That weep forth sympathy ! thy holy brow,
Whereon such sweet imaginings do rise :
Art thou not near me, when I call thee now,
Maid of my childhood's vow!
Even like an angel, smiling 'mid the storm,
"Wert thou amid the darkness of my woes
Thy pure thoughts clustering around thy form,
Like seraph-garments, whiter than the snows,
Which the wild sea upthrows.
Now I behold thee, with thy sorrowing smile,
And thy deep soul uplooking from thy face,
While sweetly crossed upon thy breast the while,
Thy white hands do thy holy heart embrace,
In its calm dwelling-place!
