Henry Neele

This heart, this sad heart, knew thee long,
The child of feeling and of song;
Thy breast was like a Jordan tree,
And oft it bled its balm for me.
I loved the world, and so did'st thou;
She met thee with a smiling brow;
Her bitter scorn 'twas mine to see,
And frown on her, as she on me:—
Older and happier, (why this tear?)
Yet thou art gone, and I am here!

To woo the virgin Muse we strove;
Successful suitors in our love,
We oped a bank of smiles and tears,
To draw on for our future years.
Thy life, one bright and joyous round—
Still echoing to the same glad sound,
Seemed like a lake that needs no buoy,
Or bliss that fears no bankrupt joy:
Mine — one long, stormy night, and drear;
Yet thou art gone, and I am here!

Is there a luxury in woe—
A misery that we long to know?
Is there a chain we love to wear—
A joy that binds us to despair?
Born some ignoble rank to swell,
If feelings, habits, heart, rebel,
Is there a bond can tie me, still,
Those meaner duties to fulfil
If I can 'scape! — O tell me! where?
If none, why should I tarry here?