V.—TO AN OLD FLAME.

Written on one of the bitterest days of Winter.

Ah, Mary, thou art far away,

And never dost thou think of me,

But unto thee my visions fly

Like birds across the sea.

I loved thee once with such a love

As manhood only knows and feels,

Less shown by actions and by words

Than what the eye reveals.

Within the warm and sunny South

Thy form is folded like a rose,

While I, in Northern realms afar,

Am wrapt in wintry snows.

Perhaps a husband’s arms enclose

The treasure I’d have died to win,

So that desire for thy sweet face

Is very like a sin.

But I’ll not think it—let me dream—

Since dreams alone such bliss bestow—

That, ere we meet in climes above,

We yet may meet below.

And I again may feel a thrill

Of rapture as I sit and gaze

Into thine eye’s delicious depth

Till all my heart’s ablaze.

And I can hear thy tuneful voice,

With melody almost divine,

Sing the sweet songs I joyed to hear

In days of auld lang syne.

But all in vain I strike my lyre,

In vain my burning thoughts unfold,

For, though my heart is warm with love,

My hands are numb with cold.

——