WAITING.

I cannot wean my wayward heart from waiting,

Though the steps watched for never come anear;

The wearying want clings to it unabating —

The fruitless wish for presences once dear.

No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision;

No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow;

No scene more truly could be called Elysian,

Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.

And yet I pine;— this beautiful completeness

Is incomplete, to my desiring heart;

‘ Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness —

The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.

There is no longer pleasure in emotion.

I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill;

Who — “painted ships upon a painted ocean,” —

Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.

Where are they fled?— they whose delightful voices,

Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall:

No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices:

Change, death, and distance part me now from all.

And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming,

Pierces my soul with every sharp regret;

The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming,

Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.

Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent,

‘ Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine,

Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent,

In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:

Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses,

And gathered violets to deck my breast,

Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses —

I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.

Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning

Of prairie fires, far off, through gathering gloom;

While the young moon, and one bright star returning

Down the blue solitude, leave Night their room.

Gone is the glimmer of the silent river;

Hushed is the wind that sped the leaves to-day;

Alone through silence falls the crystal shiver

Of the sweet starlight, on its earthward way.

And yet I wait, how vainly! for a token —

A sigh, a touch, a whisper from the past;

Alas, I listen for a word unspoken,

And wail for arms that have embraced their last.

I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling

To grow immortal in my happy breast;

Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing —

The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.

As the conviction sinks into my spirit

That my quick heart is doomed to death in life;

Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it,

I am abandoned to despairing strife.

To the lost life, alas! no more returning —

In this to come no semblance of the past —

Only to wait!— hoping this ceaseless yearning

May,‘ ere long, end — and rest may come at last.