56 



FUNEREAL SKETCHES, No. XII. 

 WASTED AFFECTION. 



Tis time this fond pursuit should close ; 



Alas ! thou art not what I deemed, 

 The spirit-love my bosom chose, 



Or fancy dreamed. 



No phantom thing my heart believed ; 



Vain wreaths of hope that round it curled 

 I had not thus been undeceived, 



Not for a world. 



Not found thee, ev'n what dreams essay, 



To light withal a lover's breast ; 

 And fair as ever walked in clay, 



Without the rest. 



It was not good, it was not well, 



In spurning what you valued not, 

 The gentle part, each nameless spell 



Should be forgot. 

 And yet I thank thee, though His pain 



To read our fairy hopes untaught, 

 Tis better now than when the brain 



Is long o'er-wrought. 



Tis better; for my spirit's wed 



To feelings that, from all but thee, 

 1 lad set me where the Spartan dead 



Was not more free. 



Coldness, neglect, by slow decay 



Will sever dearest ties apart; 

 Thou, like an earthquake on its way, 



Hast rent the heart. 



Still thou art fair, oh very fair, 



And long thy name must wear a charm ; 

 I would not one rude breath of air 



Should work thee harm. 



Aye, thee or thine; there was a pride 



A passing thought of joy 'tis gone 

 To dwell on those with thee allied : 

 I am alone. 



