The Terrace At Berne

Ten years! and to my waking eye     Once more the roofs of Berne appear;     The rocky banks, the terrace high,     The stream, and do I linger here?     The clouds are on the Oberland,     The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;     But bright are those green fields at hand,     And through those fields comes down the Aar,     And from the blue twin lakes it comes,     Flows by the town, the church-yard fair,     And neath the garden-walk it hums,     The house and is my Marguerite there?     Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush     Of startled pleasure floods thy brow,     Quick through the oleanders brush,     And clap thy hands, and cry: Tis thou!     Or hast thou long since wanderd back,     Daughter of France! to France, thy home;     And flitted down the flowery track     Where feet like thine too lightly come?     Doth riotous laughter now replace     Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare,     Thy cheeks soft hue, and fluttering lace     The kerchief that enwound thy hair?     Or is it over? art thou dead?     Dead? and no warning shiver ran     Across my heart, to say thy thread     Of life was cut, and closed thy span!     Could from earths ways that figure slight     Be lost, and I not feel twas so?     Of that fresh voice the gay delight     Fail from earths air, and I not know?     Or shall I find thee still, but changed,     But not the Marguerite of thy prime?     With all thy being re-arranged,     Passd through the crucible of time;     With spirit vanishd, beauty waned,     And hardly yet a glance, a tone,     A gesture, anything retaind     Of all that was my Marguerites own?     I will not know! for wherefore try     To things by mortal course that live     A shadowy durability     For which they were not meant, to give?     Like driftwood spars which meet and pass     Upon the boundless ocean-plain,     So on the sea of life, alas!     Man nears man, meets, and leaves again.     I knew it when my life was young,     I feel it still, now youth is oer!     The mists are on the mountains hung,     And Marguerite I shall see no more.