Poems

Front matter

S

BY

EMMA TOKE

Nicolas Toke

tpp|NICOLAS TOKE.| {sm}<>FROM HIS MOST AFFECTIONATE WIFE.

BELOVED! on this festal morn,

The birthday of another year,

What welcome offering can I bring

To thee, of all on earth most dear?

No gem of price from eastern lands,

No rare or costly gift have I,

Only a few wild flowers of song,

A wreath of gentle poesy.

And though to other eyes less fond,

But worthless all their hues would be,

Yet, dearest, still I know full well,

That precious they will seem to thee.

And oh, within the faithful heart,

What pure and joyful feelings spring!

To think affection priceless deems

The smallest offering love can bring.

|end=stanza

To me these youthful lays recall The dreams and thoughts of former years, Till every scene that gave them birth Returns with all its hopes and fears I sec the shades of other days Revive with every artless strain; And, wrapped in Memory's dreams, retrace The hours that ne'er can come again.

But never did their heart-warm strains With faults so few appear to me, As when thou badest me trace once more These records of the past for thee. That task is done! Then take this gift From one to whom thou art so dear,— And keep, still keep it, for the sake Of her whose hand hath traced them here.

Another year of peace and love, With noiseless steps hath reached its close, And only found us still more blest Than when its first pale beam arose: Mercy hath still each blessing spared That crowned with bliss our lot below; And one sweet flower, which bloomed not then, Sheds fragrance o'er our pathway now.

What blessing for the coming year, Dearest, can I implore for thee?— The best; that sent to us in love, Pleasure and pain alike may be:

That we may still, through every change, Our best affections fix above, And share together joy or woe, With mingled hearts and changeless love.

>>E.

January 1st, 1839.

Balaam

tpp|BALAAM.|

{sc}<>Numbers xxiii. 24.

NIGHT'S veil of darkness slowly melts away, And rosy clouds proclaim the coming day. See! gathering light illumes the eastern sky, And, quenched in day, the lingering shadows fly: Now one by one the fading stars expire, And all the glowing sky seems wrapped in fire, Till, rising slowly o'er the mountain's brow, Which shines in hues of varied beauty now, All bright and glorious comes the orb of day, And pours on Moab's land his golden ray. Glad Nature smiles, and Jordan's distant streams, Now glistening, dance beneath his fiery beams; While in the limpid wave reflected clear, The glowing clouds and gorgeous skies appear. Still o'er the earth the mists of morning rest, And shroud in silver robe the mountain's crest, O'er every object cast a veil of snow, And hide in mantling clouds the plains below. Jut now the balmy zephyr gently breathes, And slow ascending all in dewy wreathes, The curling vapours rise from off the land, |end=follow

And bright once more her vales in beauty stand. But lo! what scene unlooked-for meets the eye? There, far and wide, the tents of Israel lie, In snowy whiteness o'er the distant plain, Like heaving billows on the restless main, And scattered wide, in countless numbers, seem To those who gaze—the phantoms of a dream! "How came they there? Oh! can they, can they he, The far-famed race who passed o'er Egypt's sea? And led by fire at last have reached our land, The blest of Heaven—the dread, resistless band? They must not linger here! They dare not stay! Arise, ye stranger tribes, and haste away!"

But see! on yonder mountain's towering brow, What fiery beacons beam in brightness now! Their form and sacred number seem to tell Of some dark heathen rite, or mystic spell. And who are they who stand in silence there, And watch the flames that flickering rise in air? One bends on Israel's tents his anxious gaze, Then turns to him who feeds the brightening blaze, As if to trace in that dark, sunken eye, Some passing gleam to light Futurity; And seems to watch, with mingled hope and fear, For those dark words he inly longed to hear. 'Tis he! 'tis Moab's king!—and with him stands, Deep musing o'er the wide-spread stranger hands, That gifted man—that far-famed haughty seer, Whom king and people all alike revere. That day he came to meet his lord's behest, And curse the tribes whom God himself had blest!

To blast the peaceful race he deemed his foe, And call the aid of Hell to work them woe; While king and people stand around to hear Those awful words—those thrilling tones of fear!

And do they think their vain and childish wrath Can cast one darkening cloud across the path Of those whom God himself vouchsafes to bless, And lead to joy and peace and happiness? Oh! when will man at last awake to see His true condition here, and bend the knee To Him whose hand directs this earth below, And pours for all their cup of joy or woe? That impious rite is o'er, the sacred fires Are sinking fast, and Balaam now retires To see if God perchance will meet him there, And deign to grant his dread unhallowed prayer. But Balak rests beside the altars still, And waits in silent awe to hear His will Yet o'er that changing cheek and darkening brow The clouds that pass each varied feeling show,— The mingled hope and fear, and, more than all, The wild desire to see a nation fall Beneath the awful curse's withering sway, And like an evening meteor pass away! But, to! the prophet comes; his eagle eye Is lit with lustre beaming from on high. And o'er his features, pale and sad till now, A more than earthly lustre seems to glow. The Lord hath met him! Balak, haste, draw nigh And hear the words of Him who cannot lie. O'er Israel's tents the prophet gazes now, Till bursting forth these heaven-taught accents flow:—

Rise, Balak! king of Moab, rise! From where yon mountain meets the skies. Thy word thou know'st has brought me here, To curse for thee yon peaceful band,— Far-famed through many a distant land,— Whom thou dost hate, yet inly fear.

How can I curse whom God hath blest? How can I cause one cloud to rest On those whom He vouchsafes to love? How can I dare their tribes defy, Or bid their countless numbers fly, When e their strength and might will prove?

For from the rocks I view him now; His bannered lines and tents of snow From every tower and hill I see. Yon tribes, whose numbers none can tell, Alone upon the earth shall dwell, Nor numbered 'mid the nations be.

Oh, Jacob! who thy dust can count? Or who can tell the vast amount That swells thy more than earthly bliss? When hence my parting soul must fly, Oh! let me like the righteous die, And be my latter end like his!"

He pauses now. Slowly the heavenly ray That lit his gleaming eye has passed away, And lost in thought he stands, till o'er his ear The monarch's tones of mingled wrath and fear Come like the voice which breaks the mourner's sleep, And calls him back from dreams of bliss—to weep.

"What hast thou done? False, fickle Balaam, say. To curse my foes I brought thee here this day; I bade thee curse, and thou hast dared instead To pour the richest blessings on their head."

"And must I not what God hath said declare?" The prophet calm replies. "I only bear The message He hath sent by me this day: He bade me bless, and could I disobey?"

"No, Prophet, no; but come with me again To where yon mountain rises o'er the plain; Thine eye beholds their countless numbers here, From thence their utmost parts alone appear; Again we'll light the fires and pour the prayer,— Perchance the Lord will let thee curse them there."

The scene is changed, and now on Pisgal's height The noontide ray is glancing fiercely bright; Whilst all around Creation's glories seem To droop in faintness 'neath that fiery beam; In vain the aching vision seeks to rest On yonder valley's calm and verdant breast, For plain and mountain, rock and forest, now Dazzling alike in painful lustre glow; While far beyond, in glittering whiteness clear, The boundless plains of desert sand appear. No zephyr breathes to fan the sultry air, No welcome cloud, no shadow dims the glare, But all alike must droop beneath its power, And long once more to greet the evening hour,— That hour of still delight and tranquil rest, Which charms the eye, and soothes the anxious breast.

So calm, so bright,—alas! so quickly past. In every land the loveliest, though the last.

Jut when the noontide sunbeam fiercest glows, And stretched in nerveless languor all repose, See, see! in Zophim's field, on Pisgah's brow, The same dark forms are moving slowly now, And once again those sevenfold beacons rise, In flickering lustre, towards the dark blue skies. The spell is wrought, the mystic rite is o'er, And Balaam goes to meet his God once more, While faint and worn the panting nobles rest Their weary limbs on earth's maternal breast. Jut no repose the monarch yet requires, He restless paces round the fading fires, And starts at every leaf that stirs in air, Expecting still to see the prophet there. He comes at last! Bright is the heavenly ray That o'er his glowing features seems to play. But Balak silent waits, in anxious fear, The words he longed yet scarcely hoped to hear; Whilst awe, and many a feeling undefined Of coming woe, sweep o'er his restless mind, And vengeful thoughts he would not man should know, Now fire his eve, and cloud his darkening brow. "What hast thou heard again?" at last he cries. And thus in words of power the seer replies:—

Rise, Balak! King of Moab, now draw nigh And hear:—God is not man that He should lie, Or son of man, to change once more The word that He declared before.

Oh! hath He said,—and shall He not fulfil? Or spoken,—shall He not perform it still? Behold! behold! I bear His high command To pour a blessing on yon favoured band! Yea, He, their God, who reigns above, Hath deigned to gird them with His love. And mortal man cannot reverse for thee His sovereign will, or change His high decree.

For, lo! iniquity He hath not seen In Jacob's race; no evil there hath been: God is among them, and there rings Amidst their hosts the shout of kings. The Lord has led them forth upon their way, And He will prove their constant strength and stay.

"Thrice blessed race! Each dark unhallowed spell For woe to Jacob wrought shall surely fail. Oh, yes! in other, distant days Full many an eye shall love to gaze On Israel's heaven-led course with wonders fraught, And humbly cry, 'What hath Jehovah wrought?'

For, lo! as with the dark returning night The lion rises girt with kingly might, So shall yon favoured nation rise; So shall they lift them to the skies, Nor rest till, like the forest monarch's prey, Each rebel foe shall bow beneath their sway."

Again the trance is o'er! In silent awe He stands, deep musing on the scene he saw,

While angel voices loud the chorus swelled, And seraph hymns Creation's morning hailed? Oh! pause and think. By His Almighty power Yon glorious orb on high, earth's lowliest flower, Alike were formed. Each changing earthly scene Controlled and planned by Him alone has been. His searching eye can pierce the night of years, His hand directs all human hopes and fears To one great end. And dost thou think for thee That e will alter now His high decree? Oh, no! Pause, then,—the impious thought is vain,— Nor dare to tempt His righteous wrath again.

Tis evening's hour. The parting orb of day Now pours on earth his last and brightest ray, Still fondly lingers ere he sinks to rest, And lights with golden beams the burning west; While all the floating clouds that gem the sky Reflect in rosy tints the crimson dye. How bright and peaceful all around appears! Fair eve in silence weeps her dewy tears, As if she pensive mourned another day For ever gone, for ever passed away, And all its lights and shadows, hopes and fears, Now numbered 'mid the dreams of other years, To live no more, save when the mental eye Unlocks the treasured stores of memory, And bids departed hours of joy or pain In bright delusion start to life again. All Nature seems to rest in bright repose, While softly still the parting sunbeam glows,

Gilding her lovely scenes with melting light, And tints of varied hue, so fair and bright, That every heart must feel the moment's power, And own thy magic charm, oh, loveliest hour! There Jordan's distant waves roll clear and bright, Bach rippling billow glows with golden light, And hill and vale—the torrent sweeping by— The olive woods—the smiling earth and sky— The cool and fragrant breeze, which bears along In mournful notes the bird of evening's song— The spicy sweets that fill the perfumed air,— All, all combine to form a scene so fair, So soft and calm, that e'en the aching breast Must feel its sorrows lulled awhile to rest, And wakening hope a ray of comfort fling, To gild the darkest spot on Memory's wing.

But see! where, on Mount Peor's lofty brow, In purple hues the evening sunbeams glow, Again, again, those sevenfold mystic fives Now lift on high their bright and wavy spires: Oh! can it be, though twice refused before, That Moab's monarch dares again to pour His impious prayer to Him whose sleepless love Had made the threatened curse a blessing prove, And caused the cloud that seemed so dark with wrath To shed but gladness o'er his Israel's path? 'Tis true, alas! Once more the altars rise: The flames ascending greet the darkening skies. And now the rites are o'er—the offerings slain; But Balaam dares not tempt the Lord again: He sees no power of earth or hell can stay

The hand of Him whose word all must obey: Therefore he seeks unhallowed aid no more (Alas! too often sought and felt before), But lost in thoughts of mingled joy and pain, He mutely gazes on the distant plain, And ponders o'er the wondrous scenes of light, The years to come which rose before his sight; The visioned dreams, in long and bright array, That marked the course of one eventful day. Above expands Judea's cloudless sky, Beneath his feet her lovely valleys lie: The Land of Promise, bathed in sunlight, seems Some fairy paradise of poet's dreams! Yet Nature's fairest scenes he heeds not now, But turns to where the desert spreads below; Those dreary plains, those boundless wastes of fear, Where clouds ne'er shed one soft refreshing tear, But burning sands, in viewless distance spread, All faint and worn the weary pilgrims tread, And o'er the dim horizon sadly gaze, To mark at once the warning purple haze, And fall to earth before the victor, Death, Comes borne upon the flying Simoom's breath. Woe, woe to him who mocks that herald light, Or dares to watch the fell destroyer's flight! He ne'er shall see his distant home again, But sink unwept upon the desert plain, And leave his bones fast whitening in the gale, To tell each passer-by the mournful tale!

Still wrapt in thought the musing prophet stands, Intently gazing o'er those dreary sands;

For there, clear seen against the evening sky, In marshalled lines the tents of Israel lie. Each varied tribe encamped apart he sees, Their bannered ensigns streaming on the breeze; And in the midst—alone, on holy ground— Beneath the arching cloud which floats around, That sacred place, where God himself descends To guard and guide the race His love befriends, And hold mysterious converse, high and dread, With him by whom their countless hosts are led. Thrice holy spot! there still the towering cloud By day extends its dark and awful shroud, To guide o'er trackless wastes the chosen band, Who seek with pilgrim-steps their promised land; And through the hours of darkness glows with light, A giant torch to break the gloom of night, And bid the sons of Jacob peaceful sleep, For still their God a ceaseless watch will keep, And guard from danger all who slumber there, With quenchless love and yet unwearied care.

Still deeply musing o'er their long array, Now bathed in sunset's last declining ray, The prophet stands upon the mountain's height, His wild locks streaming on the breeze of night, Till earthly thoughts and feelings all expire, And o'er his soul, on wings of living fire, The Spirit comes! Lo! now in lengthened train The forms of future years arise again; And visioned empires, stretched in long array, Come dimly "towering on,"—then pass away: While far beyond, the glorious latter days

In scenes of wonder meet his raptured gaze; And one bright Star—one orb of heavenly light, Sheds gathering radiance o'er his spirit's night, Till thus, with kindling eye and heaving breast, As if with streams of burning thought oppressed, His hallowed words come o'er the monarch's ear, In tones of peace he loved not then to hear!

How lovely 'neath that evening beam Thy bannered lines, O Israel, seem, Far stretched in beauty o'er the desert plain! Like gardens by the river's side, Like cedars near the sparkling tide, Thy wandering homes repose in peace again!

Yes, Jacob shall indeed be blest!— By many a stream his seed shall rest, And lift his ensign towards the boundless skies. Before him every foe shall bow, And mightier far than Agag now, In glorious power his King shall soon arise.

From Egypt's land of fear and pain The Lord hath brought him forth again, And led him safely on with monarch hand: His arm shall bring distress and woe On every proud rebellions foe, And sweep with terror all their vanquished land.

Now, like the couching lion's rest, He slumbers on the desert's breast;

But who shall rouse him from his fierce repose?— Blessed be he who blesseth thee, Oh Jacob!—doubly cursed he, Who dares to wish for thee, earth's thousand woes!"

Like lightning flashing through the darkened sky, Bright gleams the monarch's fierce and wrathful eve: He smites his hands in mingled grief and pain, "Oh Prophet! dare not mock me thus again! I brought thee here to curse my deadly foe, And thrice thy traitor lips have blessed him now Hence! haste away!—I thought to raise thy name, But lo! the Lord hath kept thee back from fame!"

"Nay, monarch—blame me not," replies the seer.— "For told I not to those who brought we here, That if thou shouldst thy richest boons bestow, And give me all that man can need below, I still must humbly bow before the Lord,— Nor dare to go beyond His holy word? And now no longer here must I remain, But turn to seek my mountain home again Then hear, oh king! and I will tell to thee, What in the later days shall surely be: And how yon wandering pilgrims fearful then, Shall cause thy people woe and dread again.

Oh! I shall see Him—but not now; Before Him all that live must how:— For lo! a Star shall rise in Jacob's land.— A Sceptre shall from Israel come, To seal accursed Moab's doom, And pour dismay on Sheth's devoted hand,

Then Edom shall no more Le free; And Seir! thy foes shall compass thee: For Israel's sons must rise in power again: And He who in that latter day Shall hold the world beneath His sway, From Jacob's land of peace shall rise to reign.

But thou, oh haughty empire! thou The first among the nations now, Thine end shall be destruction, fear, and woe: And though yon Kenite's lofty nest Is fixed upon the mountain's crest, And proudly towers above the plains below;—

Yet must she slowly waste away, Until that dark and stormy day, Where Asshur's band shall close her dark career, And bow her haughty sons again To wear the captive's galling chain, And shed the exile's bitter, hopeless tear.

Yea, ships shall come from Chittim's coast To smite devoted Asshur's host; And Eber, too, shall then for ever fall. But, when those fearful days arrive, Alas!—alas! who can survive?— Oh! who shall meet Thy wrath, dread Lord of all?"

He pauses now—the prophet trance is o'er,— The vision fled—to come again no more! 'Tis gone!—like yonder sun's departing ray, The heavenly beam has passed for aye away,—

And never more shall that unearthly light For him illume the shadowy future's night, Or chase away his darkened spirit's gloom With scenes of joy and glory yet to come.

No longer there the awe-struck group remain, But turn to seek their distant homes again; And 'neath the rising star of evening's ray, Silent and mournful now retrace their way.

Soon o'er fair Moab's hills and sparkling streams The silver crescent sheds her melting beams O'er the dim woods and Jordan's heaving breast. Brightly her trembling lustre seems to rest. And bathes in watery light yon desert plains, Where now at last Night's thrilling silence reigns And gentle sleep, on noiseless pinions borne, Descends to shed sweet peace o'er those that mourn, And steep awhile in dark oblivion's rest, Lull many a weary form and aching breast.

Almost four thousand years have passed away On wings of speed, since that eventful day, And they who then from Pisgah's lofty brow Beheld the wandering tribes encamped below, Long, long have met the fate of mortal birth. And sleep forgotten in their kindred earth. Life passed away! Beyond the castern wave The haughty monarch fills an unknown grave And he upon whose soul the Spirit's flame No oft in streams of burning lustre came,

'Mid scenes of bloodshed closed his strange career, And found at last a soldier's gory bier. But say, oh, Prophet! did that heavenly light Which rose in beauty o'er thy raptured sight, And bursting through the veil of shadowy gloom Which shrouds the varied scenes of years to come, Displayed to thee, though dim and far away, Heaven's glorious hour—earth's best and brightest day; Say, did its radiance, like the meteor light That swiftly shoots across the brow of night, But flash one moment o'er thy darkened mind, Then pass away, nor leave a trace behind? Or did its cherished hope with gladdening power Illume the darkness of thy parting hour, And o'er the grave redeeming lustre shed, To cheer the anguish of thy dying bed? Oh, vain the thought! To God, thy God alone, The secret workings of thy heart are known. We judge thee not: but in that awful hour, When girt with might, the Lord of Life and Power Again amid the world's fast gathering night Shall burst on earth, a sun of glorious light; When all the countless tenants of the grave, And they who sleep beneath the rolling wave, Shall startled hear the piercing trumpet call, And wake to meet the coming Lord of All; Oh! mayest thou then, with wrapt, unshrinking gaze, Behold at last the full meridian blaze Of that fair Orb, that bright and morning Star Whose first pale radiance glimmering from afar, Came o'er thy spirit's visions dimly bright, And shed on all around its dawning light.

Oh, mayest then then, when Israel reach their home, No more in sadness or reproach to roam, Rejoice with them, and join the grateful strain,— "Glory to Him who died, but lives again; Glory to Him who bought us with His blood, The Lord of Life, the spotless Lamb of God! Glory to Him! though mocked and scorned before, Now, now He comes! to reign for evermore!"

>>E.

October, 1832,

Sunset

Torquay, January 31, 1831.

Lines

Torquay, February 3, 1831.

Lines

Torquay, December 22, 1830.

Lines

Torquay, December 21, 1830.

Lines

Then come, then come! I long with thee To gaze on Nature's face once more; For well may I desire to see Those days again I've seen before.

But soon I trust the day will come, When thou with us again shalt dwell, Though thine is now a distant home, Far, far away: till then, farewell.

>>E.

Torquay, October 19, 1830.

The aurora borealis

It shines upon their ice-built homes, With soft and beamy glow; And led by it the traveller roams O'er boundless plains of snow.

How like is that rejoicing light To Hope's bright, cheerful ray,— Which onward points, and turns the night Of deepest gloom to day!

>>E.

Torquay, January 20, 1831.

Lines

And all around's so calm and still, So gentle and serene, That mingled feelings wake a sigh Of pleasure and of pain: For wakened Memory brings the thought Of years long passed away, While Hope looks on to scenes of bliss Tn brighter worlds of day.

And e'en on these wild desert plains, Where Nature's charms are rare, E'en here mine eve can always find Some object bright or fair: For though no towering mountains rise, Or wooded plains appear, Yet even Nature's loneliness Has something calm and dear; And as brightly here yon sun In setting splendour glows,— And as calmly on the hills The evening stars repose,— And yon fair moon is gliding on, Her soft pale rays as bright Ag if on richer, lovelier scenes She shed her silvery light; And oh! the thought of happiest days Spent on these lonely plains Will make their memory dear to me While ever life remains.

>>E.

Elphin, 1830.

The skylark

May 31, 1850,

The last

June, 1832.

Acrostic

March 9, 1833.

Lines

'Tis passing sweet, when Music swells With power and magic all her own, To feel some loved remembrance dwells Enshrined in every breathing tone;

And think our image too may rest Embalmed in such sweet numbers' flow, And rise o'er some still faithful breast, Undimmed by absence, joy, or woe.

Perchance the wish may seem but vain, Yet still to me the thought is dear, From fond affection thus to claim The meed of gentle Memory's tear.

Then oh! not yet ye numbers cease: Breathe, breathe again that mournful air: 'Mid Nature's tears the how of Peace In mellowed light is beaming there!

>>E.

May 8, 1533.

Peter weeping

Yet, ah! 'tis true!—the deed is done! Betrayed by all most loved below, The Lord of Life is left alone, To drain the last sad cup of woe.

And thou—the first to own thy Lord, To boast thy love of all the best,— Hast now but deeper plunged the sword That pierces through His bleeding breast,

And yet thy tears of anguish flow, Thy soul seems wrung with grief untold; Oh! what could wake that tide of woe, Or melt a heart so dead and cold?

Did Heaven's fierce thunders burst thy trance. Or fear thy guilty bosom move? AN, no! 'twas one mild, sorrowing glance, One look of wronged but changeless love.

No storm can bid the torrent flow, When bound in Winter's icy chain; But let the sunbeam smile, and lo! The waters leap to life again!

And thus the bolt of wrath might bow, But could not melt thy frozen heart; Yet, touched by Mercy's kindly glow, How soon the gushing waters start!

Then weep thou on, but let thy tears Be those of soft, repenting love; And let this hour, through future years, A beacon-star of warning prove.

So shalt thou rise from depths of woe, With humbled heart but soaring eye, To run a glorious course below, And win a Martyr's crown on high.

Such was thy lot! And oh! may He Whose one soft glance could win thee home, Now look, as then He looked on thee, And bid each wandering spirit come.

Yes, may He touch each hardened heart, And lead them on with "cords of love:" To fill like thee their earthly lot, And share Thy glorious lot above!

>>E.

May 20, 1833.

Lines

For there we see the forms so dear, The treasured ties that bind us here, Departing one by one, Till every friend has passed away, And we, in life's declining day, Are left to weep alone.

Sad, sad the thought! but not to all; Oh, some, when deep the shadows fall, And all around is drear, (Can see the future's threatening form, Yet calmly meet the coming storm Without one doubt or fear!

For they can view the thorny way, Still lit by Heaven's unfading ray, That many a saint has trod; Then lift their hearts and hopes above, To rest upon a Father's love, And trust their all to God.

Thrice happy they! for who could fear The storms of life, if One be near The raging waves to quell, Or feel, though every friend were gone, A wanderer on earth alone, If God be with him still?

Then, Lord, be Thou to every breast A Star of hope, an Ark of rest, While here on earth we roam; And, oh! whate'er our lot may prove, Still guard us with Thy changeless love, And guide us safely home.

Then though earth's meteor lights decay, And joys are fading fast away, Our hearts at peace shall be; And e'en the darkest path seem bright, If, through the storm and shades of night, It leads at last to Thee.

>>E.

June 26, 1833,

Farewell

Yet, when the parting hour draws nigh. When struggling griefs each bosom swell, What heart, though bursting, ere could fly The last embrace, the wept Farewell?

Oh, yes! if we must part again From those on earth we hold most dear, There's mournful pleasure 'mid the pain Of fond affection's parting tear.

Yet still that word, so fraught with gloom, Must pierce the heart with lightning power, Until that blissful time be come When all shall breathe "Farewell" no more.