118 Florence Vane

I LOVED thee long and dearly,

Florence Vane;

My life’s bright dream, and early,

Hath come again;

I renew, in my fond vision,

My heart’s dear pain,

My hope, and thy derision,

Florence Vane.

The ruin lone and hoary,

The ruin old,

Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told,—

That spot—the hues Elysian

Of sky and plain—

I treasure in my vision,

Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,

Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under—

Alas the day!

And it boots not to remember

Thy disdain—

To quicken love’s pale ember,

Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep,

The pansies love to dally

Where maidens sleep;

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!