Thou Lovest Me No More

THOU lovest me no more. It needs not wordsTo tell me thou art altered now. Alas!I mark it well in thy cold, studied tone.Oh would affection seek its warmth to hideIn tones whose chilling, freezing cadencesFall on the soul like Alpine drops? 'Tis trueThou still dost say that I am dear; thy lipStill murmurs all love's practised flatteries,But thy stern glance of cold and withering prideTurns all the hollow mockeries of thy wordsTo bitter, bitter ashes on my heart.I utter no reproaches. Slowly nowAnd silently and mournfully opeMy spirit's rosy-gate, and drive from thenceEach dear and starwinged hope that I have lovedThrough long, long years to cherish.

Never more,—Oh never more, thou false one, may I bearIn vernal bower or in the gilded hall,A flee, and light, and happy heart. Yet IShall mingle still amid the wild and gay,My laugh will echo loudest in the dinOf mirth and joyousness, and none may knowThe soul's deep bitterness, the quivering hopesCrushed on the spirit's hearth. My smiles will beAs bright as they have been, and none may see,That, cold and vacant like the moon's pale beamsUpon a ruined temple, they but lightThe gloom and shadow that keep watch below.Mine still will be the gay and merry jest,The keen reply, the free and buoyant tread,And none may ever rend the veil, and seeWhat darkly lies beneath.

But think thou not,Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern prideShall fail me in my solitude. Ah no,The unrelenting tear may never breakForth from its deep and hidden fount. The spellOf passion still is on me, but disdainHeeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant,That rises like the low voice of the windWandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chordsOf a neglected harp. For ever crushedAnd broken be the rosy memoriesThat in their fairy beauty floated erstThrough my love-lighted soul.

Thy ring is cold,It seems to bind my finger with a spellOf ice, for its bright circle is not nowThe emblem of unending truth and trust.I'm gazing on thy picture, but I seeNo smile of sweet endearment on these lips,No high devotion on this pale, stern brow,No gleam of tore-light beaming in these eyesOf midnight fire—nay even here is change.I send thee back thy vain and worthless gifts—Ah, proud one, would that I could give thee backThy bosom's truth.

I said I would not weepAgain, but drops of mingled tears and blood,From the recesses of a breaking heartAre gushing, and the shower has brought relief;For oh! I feel that now the awful gloomWhich filled my bosom with its cloudy weight,Is broken and dispersed. Within its deepDark mists the genius of the tempest stoodLike a dread night-mare of the soul, and heldMy spirit's elements in thrall. but nowThe loosened zephyrs wander as they list,The deep, strong spell that bound them is dissolved,And lo! the twilight soft comes stealing onWith its one star, the star of memory,Pale, pale, but very beautiful.

I countThe drops that, one by one, fall on my heart,Turning its woman's softness into stone;Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou stillArt dear, and ever wilt be dear Some thoughtsOf thee, though all my future years will beLike by-gone music lingering in my soul,A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years,Or like the lone funereal lamp that burnsWithin the dark and solitary depthsOf Eastern tombs, forever shining onWhere all around is death and dull decay.