The Prophecy

Let, me gaze a while on that marble brow, On that full dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow; Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. That brow may beam in glory a while; That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile; That full, dark eye may brightly beam In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream; But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow. I know by that spirit so haughty and high, I know by that brightly-flashing eye, That, maiden, there's that within thy breast, Which hath mark'd thee out for a soul unbless'd: The strife of love with pride shall wring Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string; And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee, Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye A dark and a doubtful prophecy. Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse; Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. I see the cloud and the tempest near; The voice of the troubled tide I hear; The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, The rushing waves of a wretched life; Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see, And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave! Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. When I am cold, and the hand of Death Hath crown'd my brow with an icy wreath; When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep, Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high, And think on my last sad prophecy.