Sweet is the love of brethren, sweet the joy
Of a young mother in her cradled toy,
And sweet is childhood's deep and earnest glow
Of reverence for a father's head of snow!
Sweeter than all, ere our young hopes depart,
The quickening throb of an impassioned heart,
Beating in silence, eloquently still,
For one loved soul that answers to its thrill.
But where thy smile, Religion, hath not shone,
The chain is riven, and the charm is gone,
And, unawakened by thy wondrous spell,
The feelings slumber in their silent cell.
Hushed is the voice of labour and of mirth,
The light of day is sinking from the earth,
And Evening mantles in her dewy calm
The couch of one who cannot heed its balm.*
Lo! where the chieftain on his matted bed
Leans the faint form, and hangs the feverish head;
There is no lustre in his wandering eye,
Ilis forehead hath no show of majesty,
His gasping lip, too weak for wail or prayer,
Scarce stirs the breeze, and leaves no echo there,
This sketch of the death of a New Zealander, and of the superstition which prevents the offering of any consolation or assistance, under the idea that a sick man is under the immediateinfluence of the Deity, is taken from the narrative of the death of Duaterra, a friendly chieftain, recorded by Mr. Nicholas, vol. ii. p. 181
And his strong arm, so nobly wont to rear
The feathered target, or the ashen spear,
Drops powerless and cold! the pang of death
Locks the set teeth, and chokes the struggling
breath;
And the last glimmering of departing day
Lingers around to herald life away.
Is there no duteous youth to sprinkle now One drop of water on his lip and brow? No dark-eyed maid, to bring with soundless foot The lulling potion, or the healing root? No tender look to meet his wandering gaze? No tone of fondness, heard in happier days, To soothe the terrors of the spirit's flight, And speak of mercy and of hope to-night? All love, all leave him!-terrible and slow Along the crowd the whispered murmurs grow: "The hand of Heaven is on him! is it ours "To check the fleeting of his numbered hours? "Oh, not to us,-oh, not to us is given
"To read the book, or thwart the will, of Heaven!
"Away, away!" and each familiar face
Recoils in horror from his sad embrace;
The turf on which he lies is hallowed ground, The sullen priest stalks gloomily around,
And shuddering friends, that dare not soothe or
Hear the last groan, and dig the destined grave.
The frantic widow folds upon her breast
Her glittering trinkets and her gorgeous vest,
Circles her neck with many a mystic charm,
Clasps the rich bracelet on her desperate arm,
Binds her black hair, and stains her eyelid's
fringe
With the jet lustre of the Henow's tinge;
Then on the spot where those dear ashes lie,
In bigot transport sits her down to die.
Her swarthy brothers mark the wasted cheek,
The straining eyeball, and the stifled shriek,
And sing the praises of her deathless name,
As the last flutter racks her tortured frame.
They sleep together: o'er the natural tomb
The lichened pine rears up its form of gloom,
And lorn acacias shed their shadow gray,
Bloomless and leafless, o'er the buried clay.
And often there, when, calmly, coldly bright,
The midnight moon flings down her ghastly
With solemn murmur, and with silent tread,
The dance is ordered, and the verse is said,
And sights of wonder, sounds of spectral fear,
Scare the quick glance, and chill the startled ear.
Yet direr visions e'en than these remain;
A fiercer guiltiness, a fouler stain!
Oh! who shall sing the scene of savage strife,
Where Hatred glories in the waste of life?
The hurried march, the looks of grim delight,
The yell, the rush, the slaughter, and the flight,
The arms unwearied in the cruel toil,
The hoarded vengeance and the rifled spoil;
And, last of all, the revel in the wood,
The feast of death, the banqueting of blood,
When the wild warrior gazes on his foe,
Convulsed beneath him in his painful throe,
And lifts the knife, and kneels him down to
drain
The purple current from the quiv'ring vein?—
Cease, cease the tale; and let the ocean's roll
Shut the dark horror from my wildered soul!
And are there none to succour? none to speed A fairer feeling and a holier creed?
Alas! for this, upon the ocean blue,
Lamented Cook, thy pennon hither flew;
For this, undaunted, o'er the raging brine,
The venturous Frank upheld his Saviour's sign.
Unhappy chief! while Fancy thus surveys
The scattered islets, and the sparkling bays,
Beneath whose cloudless sky and gorgeous sun
Thy life was ended, and thy voyage done,
In shadowy mist thy form appears to glide,
Haunting the grove, or floating on the tide;
Oh! there was grief for thee, and bitter tears,
From the coast of Australasia the last dispatches of La Peyrouse were dated. Vid. Quarterly Review, for Feb. 1510
And racking doubts through long and joyless
And tender tongues that babbled of the theme,
And lonely hearts that doted on the dream.
Pale Memory deemed she saw thy cherished
Snatched from the foe, or rescued from the storm;
And faithful Love, unfailing and untired,
Clung to each hope, and sighed as each expired.
On the bleak desert, on the tombless sea,
No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee;
Affection knows not, whether o'er thy grave
The ocean murmur, or the willow wave;
But still the beacon of thy sacred name
Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame;
Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse
Wreathes the green cypress for her own Pey-
But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan, Nor check the task thy pious toil began; O'er the wide waters of the bounding main The Book of Life must win its way again, And in the regions by thy fate endeared, The Cross be lifted, and the Altar reared.
With furrowed brow and cheek serenely fair, The calm wind wandering o'er his silver hair, His arm uplifted, and his moistened eye
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