Текст оригинала на английском языке
OH! treasured thus by passion's slave, Dear relic of the bygone year; Say, what remains of her who gave? The vain regret--the useless tear. The clasping hands--the throbbing brow-- The murmuring of that shadowy word, To which had answered once--oh! now, Why is that light quick step unheard? What in those syllables is found, That such a start of woe can claim? A word is but an empty sound,-- Alas! it is--it was--her name! It was--yes, she was once! as gay, As full of life, as aught that lives; The breath--the life--hath passed away, But not the pang her memory gives. Bright tress! thy beauty bringeth now A thousand dreams of rapture gone; Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow, The low, light laughter of her tone. Gazing on thee, again she stands Before me, as in days of old; With all her young head's shining bands, And all its wavy curls of gold. Till as I view thee, silken tress, I feel within my suffering heart,-- 'Tis all which now my sight can bless, All that of her will not depart. Oh! thou that wert life's dearest prize, That now art but a thought of pain; Why do thy tones--thy laughing eyes-- Rise up to wring my soul again? I roam in vain:--the sun that beams Is still the sun we looked upon; My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams, Seeks still for thine to clasp its own. My heart resists all time--all change, And finds no other form so dear. My memory, wheresoe'er I range, Clings to the spot where thou wert near. Change!--thou wert all life's scenery: To me, the billowy, bounding wave-- The wide green earth--the far blue sky, Form but the landscape of thy grave! Oh! bitter is their boon of life Who cannot hope--who may not die-- I linger in a world of strife, Whilst thou art in the happy sky! I envy thee the peace thou hast, And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow, That He who made thee all thou wast, Would make me all--that thou art now!
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