NOT LOST ᎪᎡᎢ THOU то ME. 117

Not Lost art Chou to Me.

Nor lost art thou to me;

Thou, the departed!
A presence still of thee

Dwelleth instead.

I turn, and thou art not—
Yet know thee near;

There is that can part not-
Absent, yet here.

The blind there is, heareth;
The deaf, yet hath sight;
Day to one sense appeareth;
To one is night;

And a sense in my spirit

Liveth to thee !

None other hath merit,—

Pleasure for me.

Often, thou precious one,
Is thy shade near;

Oft, as I sit alone,

Doth it appear:

Not in voice, not in form,
Gesture or air;-

But the life of thy being,
Thy presence, is there.

When riseth the full soul In anguish on high, Thou dost its grief control; Thou then art nigh. In hope, thou art o'er me! And sunset doth bring, 'Mid hues I've watch'd with thee, A violet wing.

In music descending,

Thou comest to me;

Joys past with thee blending,
Ah! mournfully.

Let morning's glad brightness,
The fountain, the tree,

Clouds passing in lightness,-
All tell of thee!

ME.

119

NOT LOST ᎪᎡᎢ THOU TO

Not lost art thou to me,

O thou departed!
A presence still of thee,

Dwelleth instead:

I look, and thou art not!
Yet art thou near:

There is that can part not--
Absent, yet here!

To a Clover.

THOU art a little rustic flower
That none may see in lady's bower;
That never shone in minstrel's lay,
Or form'd a wreath on festal day.
Thou and thy lowly sisters lie,
Unmark'd by many a passing eye;
But those who chance to linger near
Will find, throughout thy little sphere,
There breathes a sweetly-perfumed air
Which brighter spots might never share.
Loved flower!-though beauty mark thee not,
Thou still dost flourish unforgot;

For where thou art must ever be

The breath of life and liberty!

No cultured flowers here mock thy bloom,
Or render faint thy soft perfume ;-
Thou liv'st apart-the gay parterre
May never own thy presence there.
And now to me thou art a thing

From which the sweetest thoughts may spring

All holy-for they 're born above,

Where He who form'd thee dwells in love,
And fondly guards the wild-wood flower,

Till vanish'd is its little hour.