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!