Edwardsville Spectator

POETRY,

SOLITUDE

To love, and live for one alone,
From earth's dark temptations free:
To see no form, except that one
Which most we wish to see:
To strive the lonely hour to bless,
Cheer'd through by gratitude;
The heart then feels no loneliness—
This is not Solitude.

But, to gaze on the desert home,
The lov'd one far away,
And count the ling'ring days to come,
And mourn o'er the delay'
Watch for the well known step—to hear
A stranger foot intrude;
And dash away the starting tear—
This—this is Solitude.

To wander through the festive scene,
With souls but ill at ease,
To stray where lighter hearts have been,
And mock at thoughts like these:
To look for one 'mid those around,
Would glad our mournful mood,
Then start from mirth's distracting sound—
This—this is Solitude.

Tread we the gorgeous halls of state,
When all we love are by;
We can gaze on the rich and great,
Without one envious sigh:
The self-same scene the eye surveys,
With other feelings view'd,
We mingle in the mirthful maze,
No longer Solitude.

To lands where foot had seldom been,
Were it our fate to roam,
Still 'tis the heart which gilds the scene,
The heart which forms the home.
Our path may be the wilderness,
But still by joy pursued,
The one lov'd hand in ours we press,
And find no Solitude.

MATILDA,