Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LAST WISH, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LAST WISH, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Go to the forest shade
Last Line: Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Death; Women; Dead, The


Go to the forest shade
Seek thou the well-known glade,
There, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie,
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,
Like dark eyes, filled with sleep,
And bathed 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 through laurel bowers.

I know how softly bright,
Steeped in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there e'en now;
Go to the pure stream's edge,
And from its whispering sedge
Bring me those flowers to cool my fevered 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 knowest thou that fair tree --
A murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honeyed lime above:
Bring me one pearly flower
Of all its clustering shower --
For on that spot we first revealed our love.

Gather one woodbine bough,
Then, from the lattice low
Of the bowered cottage which I bade thee mark,
When by the hamlet last
Through dim wood-lanes we passed,
While dews were glancing to the glow-worm'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 odor 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 beloved!
Rove where we two have roved,
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!





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