
For the Literary Magazine.
to laura, offended.
Three days had passed with linger- ing steps away, | |
While I to narrow verge confined, | |
To body's pain and solitude a prey, | |
And sad unrest of mind. |
The fourth serene and painless rose, | |
I hie me to thy door; | |
It opens, but thy altered aspect shews | |
An open heart no more. |
A stranger I, thou hail'd'st me Friend
no more; | |
Nor welcome sweet bestowed: | |
No questions that the absent past ex- plore, | |
In tender accents flow'd. |
A brow, alas! severely bent, was thine; | |
Reluctant was thy hand; | |
Thy eyes, that so serenely us'd to shine, | |
Their sternest glance command. | |
To tedious exile from thy converse, I, | |
By sickly blasts consigned, | |
A respite from the long-drawn, lonely sigh, | |
At some time hoped to find. |
Ah, Laura, wilt thou snatch that hope away? | |
And lost must I believe thee? | |
Not merely take from life its dearest stay | |
Of life itself bereave me. |
W. |