Poem by George Pope Morris

Rosabel

I miss thee from my side, beloved,
  I miss thee from my side;
And wearily and drearily
  Flows Time's resistless tide.
The world, and all its fleeting joys,
  To me are worse than vain,
Until I clasp thee to my heart,
  Beloved one, again.

The wildwood and the forest-path,
  We used to thread of yore,
With bird and bee have flown with thee,
  And gone for ever more!
There is no music in the grove,
  No echo on the hill;
But melancholy boughs are there—
  And hushed the whip-poor-will.

I miss thee in the town, beloved,
  I miss thee in the town;
From morn I grieve till dewy eve
  Spreads wide its mantle brown.
My spirit's wings, that once could soar
  In Fancy's world of air,
Are crushed and beaten to the ground
  By life-corroding care.

No more I hear thy thrilling voice,
  Nor see thy winning face;
That once would gleam like morning's beam,
  In mental pride and grace:
Thy form of matchless symmetry,
  In sweet perfection cast—
Is now the star of memory
  That fades not with the past.

I miss thee everywhere, beloved,
  I miss thee everywhere;
Both night and day wear dull away,
  And leave me in despair.
The banquet-hall, the play, the ball,
  And childhood's sportive glee,
Have lost their spell for me, beloved,
  My souls is full of thee!

Has Rosabel forgotten me,
  And love I now in vain?
If that be so, my heart can know
  No rest on earth again.
A sad and weary lot is mine,
  To love and be forgot;
A sad and weary lot beloved—
  A sad and weary lot!

1. Thou Hast Woven the Spell
2. Fare Thee Well, Love
3. The Chieftain's Daughter
4. Thy Will Be Done
5. Wearies My Love?

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