That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
Of her he loves —
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
That rapture moves.
Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.
Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To pleasure's thrill;
‘ Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still.
‘ Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow
In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep.
Well!— there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
Oh! most to him,
Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
Round sorrow's brim.
Yes — he can smile serene at death:
Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.