The night creeps onward, sad and slow:
In these red embers' dying glow
The forms of Fancy come and go.
An island-farm—broad seas of corn
Stirred by the wandering breath of morn—
The happy spot where I was born.
The picture fadeth in its place:
Amid the glow I seem to trace
The shifting semblance of a face.
'Tis now a little childish form—
Red lips for kisses pouted warm—
And elf-locks tangled in the storm.
'Tis now a grave and gentle maid,
At her own beauty half afraid,
Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.
Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm,
When first I saw that fairy-form,
Her dark hair tossing in the storm.
And fast and free these pulses played,
When last I met that gentle maid—
When last her hand in mine was laid.
Those locks of jet are turned to gray,
And she is strange and far away
That might have been mine own to-day—
That might have been mine own, my dear,
Through many and many a happy year—
That might have sat beside me here.
Ay, changeless through the changing scene,
The ghostly whisper rings between,
The dark refrain of 'might have been.'
The race is o'er I might have run:
The deeds are past I might have done;
And sere the wreath I might have won.
Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze:
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze.
The pictures, with their ruddy light,
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night.
Jan., 1860.