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!