[Editor: A poem by Charles Harpur.]
(By C. Harpur.)
You tell me, she yet talks of me,
And vainly would forget,
The features of those days, in which
We parted and we met.
You tell me she most haunts that grove,
Where once with me she strayed!
And cherishes each bower which I
Had form’d within its shade.
You tell me this and much beside,
But is she not another’s bride?
You say when e’er her ear, in sounds
Aught like my name, may trace,
A sigh will riot in her breast,
A shade come o’er her face ;
That straight she will, with startled air,
Her bridal toys resign ;
And warble o’er with drooping head,
One little song of mine.
You say all this, and much beside ;
But is she not another’s bride ?
Then tell thy friend that he, to whom
She once was Hope’s best beam ;
Doth charge her, as a stranger, now
To cherish, not the dream ;
That still affection in us twain,
May find a mutual stir,
Such thought, were meanness now in me,
Is guiltiness, in her.
Say I forgive her, nought beside,
For is she not another’s bride ?
Oh, hint not, she was forced from faith !
Sing not that olden strain !
A thousand feelings of the past,
Gush with it on my brain !
And wheresoe’er I turn my gaze,
On waters, hills, or skies,
There, there, in dreamy bondage glide,
Love’s thousand memories !
Compel me not, in spite of pride,
To languish with — another’s bride.
Sydney, June, 1835.
The Australian (Sydney, NSW), Friday 12 June 1835, page 4