Sympathy
I.
Oh, leave me not alone ! the monarch bird,
Comes from his cloud-encompaddes height again
To listen where affection’s voice is heard,
“And stirreth up his nest!” nor yet in vain!
The wing, that steadied upward in the noonday sun,
And spurned the tempest with a cold disdain,
From Love alone that high empyrean won:
Home-luring love, when that proud flight is done.
Gently as dove he foldeth up the wing,
And tames the fierceness of the burning eye,
Where the loved one hath heard the breezes ring
Around the swaying pine, and deemed him nigh.
Warm from the nest he takes his heavenward flight,
For Love hath lent him wings to soar where all is bright.
II.
Oh, leave me not alone! dost thou but find
A dying echo to thine own dear voice,
Like that the zephyr-wing may leave behind,
When music bids the desert rocks rejoice,
Waking a sad low cadence, that when passed
Makes but the solitude more heavy weigh?
Yet stay! be thou responsive to the last,
To all, that this poor heart may rightly sway.
What though each day a newborn grief disclose.
And clouds return, althought the rain be o’er;
The cloud its fold of “silver lining” shows,
Which hope reveals more brightly evermore.
Oh, hush not thou this last impulsive thrill,
Oh, leave me not alone, to silence, deathful, still.
I.
Oh, leave me not alone ! the monarch bird,
Comes from his cloud-encompaddes height again
To listen where affection’s voice is heard,
“And stirreth up his nest!” nor yet in vain!
The wing, that steadied upward in the noonday sun,
And spurned the tempest with a cold disdain,
From Love alone that high empyrean won:
Home-luring love, when that proud flight is done.
Gently as dove he foldeth up the wing,
And tames the fierceness of the burning eye,
Where the loved one hath heard the breezes ring
Around the swaying pine, and deemed him nigh.
Warm from the nest he takes his heavenward flight,
For Love hath lent him wings to soar where all is bright.
II.
Oh, leave me not alone! dost thou but find
A dying echo to thine own dear voice,
Like that the zephyr-wing may leave behind,
When music bids the desert rocks rejoice,
Waking a sad low cadence, that when passed
Makes but the solitude more heavy weigh?
Yet stay! be thou responsive to the last,
To all, that this poor heart may rightly sway.
What though each day a newborn grief disclose.
And clouds return, althought the rain be o’er;
The cloud its fold of “silver lining” shows,
Which hope reveals more brightly evermore.
Oh, hush not thou this last impulsive thrill,
Oh, leave me not alone, to silence, deathful, still.