To Those Who Loved Her
Though gentle, loving, pure, and fair
A little maid of promise rare,
Who might in life's eventful race
Have won a bright and envied place—
Weep not for her.
Had she been granted length of life,
Her golden hair with beauty rife,
With which you fondly lov'd to play.
Care might have early ting'd with grey—
Weep not for her.
In paths not those prescribed by God,
With daring feet she might have trod.
With sin's dark dyes her soul have stained.
And ne'er a heavenly home have gain'd—
Weep not for her.
Tears might have dimm'd her sparkling eye.
Which you'd have lack'd the power to dry,
Though yearning to extract the dart
That rankled in her wounded heart—
Weep not for her.
Deep furrows too, in her smooth brow
Might have been cut by Griefs stem plough ;
But her life's glass has run its sands,
And safe she dwells with angel bands—
Weep not for her.
My Clare
Oh ! do not doubt, my gentle Clare,
The love of this fond heart ;
For could I gaze on forms more fair,
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.
My Clare—
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.
A love more deep— more fondly true—
Ne'er form'd a poet's theme ;
'Tis peerless as thine eye's hright blue,
And pure as mountain stream,
My Clare—
And pure as mountain stream.
While rivers seek the boundless main,
And foam-bells on them play.
Its purity shall know no stain.
Its fervour no decay,
My Clare—
Its fervour no decay.
While flo'rets wild perfume the gale,
And glad the roving bee,
To be all thine I cannot fail.
So dear art thou to me,
My Clare—
So dear art thou to me.
Wert thou to roam firom pole to pole—
To search each monnt and glen—
Thou would'st not find a truer soul;
Among the sons of men,
My Clare—
Among the sons of men.
Doubt, then, no more, my gentle Clare,
The love of this fond heart.
For could I gaze on forms more fair.
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.
My Clare—
From thee ' twould ne'er depart.
