---

Felicia Dorothea Hemans - The Last Wish
Work rating: Low

Go to the forest-shade,
      Seek thou the well-known glade,
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie,
      Gleaming thro` moss-tufts deep,
      Like dark eyes fill`d with sleep,
And bath`d in hues of summer`s midnight sky. 

      Bring me their buds, to shed
      Around my dying bed, 
A breath of May, and of the wood`s repose;
      For I in sooth depart,
      With a reluctant heart,
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 

      Fain would I stay with thee–
      Alas! this may not be;
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours!
      Go where the fountain`s breast
      Catches in glassy rest
The dim green light that pours thro` laurel bowers. 

      I know how softly bright,
      Steep`d in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there ev`n now;
      Go to the pure stream`s edge,
      And from its whisp`ring sedge,
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever`d brow! 

      Then, as in Hope`s young days,
      Track thou the antique maze
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound;
      There is a lone white rose,
      Shedding, in sudden snows,
Its faint leaves o`er the emerald turf around. 

      Well know`st thou that fair tree–
      A murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honey`d lime above;
      Bring me one pearly flower
      Of all its clustering shower–
For on that spot we first reveal`d our love. 

      Gather one woodbine bough,
      Then, from the lattice low
Of the bower`d cottage which I bade thee mark,
      When by the hamlet last,
      Thro` dim wood-lanes we pass`d,
While dews were glancing to the glowworm`s spark. 

      Haste! to my pillow bear
      Those fragrant things and fair;
My hand no more may bind them up at eve,
      Yet shall their odour soft
      One bright dream round me waft
Of life, youth, summer,–all that I must leave! 

      And oh! if thou wouldst ask
      Wherefore thy steps I task,
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace;
      `Tis that some thought of me,
      When I am gone, may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

      I bid mine image dwell,
      (Oh! break not thou the spell!)
In the deep wood and by the fountain-side;
      Thou must not, my belov`d!
      Rove where we two have rov`d,
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.