Godey's Lady's Book

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, February 1850

LOVE.

BY THOMAS W. LANE.

OH! if there is on earth a perfect joy,
A bliss unstained by this world's gross alloy;
If earthly joys approach, or e'er attain
To that bright bliss we'll know when born again,
'Tis in the calm delights we feel when near
Some being held above all others dear:
The very air her presence doth refine;
Near her, the sun doth warmer seem to shine;
On rosy wings, whole hours like moments fly;
The earth seems fairer, and more bright the sky;
Each pleasure, doubled, doth more pleasing seem;
Our life becomes one happy, heavenly dream;
And man, with heart all filled with peace and love,
First tastes the cup that angels quaff above:
The wandering feet of thoughtless, giddy youth,
Thou aid'st, oh! Love, to keep the paths of truth;
Life's rocks and breakers teachest them to shun,
With soft, endearing words and gentle tone;
And when dark clouds would veil the light of day,
Thy beacon still illumes the lonely way,
Still shinest on with soft, unflickering ray.

How joyless, then, how dreary must be life
Unblest by Love! with weariness how rife
That man's existence who ne'er knows the sweet,
Ethereal joys of lovers when they meet;
Who ne'er hath heard some rosy lip confess
In him is centered all its happiness;
Who ne'er hath seen soma maiden's dark, soft eye,
Grow darker, softer – when he said "Good-by" –
With rising tears, nor heard her heaving sigh;
Who ne'er hath clasped some white and trembling hand,
Nor had his cheek by some fair breather fanned;
Who owns no flower nor lock, when far away
From her who gave it, to recall the day
When that mute token of her love was given,
Before no witness save himself and heaven;
Who ne'er hath seen the color mount some cheek
At each slight tribute that his lips did speak,
Nor read within some bright, bewitching eye
The tale its lid would modestly deny;
Who ne'er hath sat beside some purling stream,
And, as he listened, softly seemed to dream,
Or breathed his love into the willing ear
Of some estray from heaven, that, wandering there,
Pronounced, in accents low, some blessed word,
Falling, like heavenly music sometimes heard,
When o'er the earth is hovering balmy sleep,
And watching angels their pure vigils keep;
Who ne'er hath stolen round some tapering waist
His arm, in eager but in graceful haste,
And, as he swept the curls back from her brow,
Gave then, in silence sealed, the solemn vow.

* * * * * * * * *

But, oh! to come, at rosy evening's close,
To that pure altar where you pay your vows,
And find the priestess, with a smile more fair,
Gazing on some more favored votary there;
To see the foot-piece of thy worshiped shrine,
Pressed by a knee, where none had knelt but thine;
To see the gem you fondly called your own,
And thought had never for another shone –
The gem you valued above all the rest –
Sparkling upon some hated rival's breast;
To see thy beacon false refuse to shine,
Save on one path, and yet that path not thine:
his, this is sorrow; this the o'erwhelming grief
For which earth hath no balm, no blest relief; –
Earth's joys then no kindred joys awake,
And naught is Loft the full heart but to break!

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