And standing by the music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say,
"A child that we have loved is gone to heaven.
And by this gate of flowers she passed away!"
When in the crimson cloud at even
The lingering light decays,
And Hesper on the front of Heaven
His glittering gems displays;
Deep in the silent vale, unseen,
Beside a lulling stream,
A pensive youth, of placid mien,
Indulg'd this tender theme:
"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd,
High o'er the glimmering dale.
Ye woods, along whose windings wild
Murmurs the solemn gale :
Where Melancholy strays forlorn,
And Woe retires to weep,
What time the wan moon's yellow horn
Gleams on the western deep:
"To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eye,
From a tumultuous world's alarms
To your retreats I fly.
Deep in your most sequester'd bower
Let me at last recline,
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power,
Leans on her ivied shrine.
"How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair? Thy heavenly smile how win?
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care,
And stills the storm within?
O, wilt thou to thy favorite grove
Thine ardent votary bring,
And bless his, hours, and bid them move
Serene, on silent wing?
"Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind
With dreams of former days,
When in the lap of Peace reclin'd,
He fram'd his infant lays :
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care
Nor cold distrust alarm'd,
Nor Envy with malignant glare
His simple youth had harm'd."
"'Twas then, O Solitude! to thee His early vows were paid,
From heart sincere, and warm, and free,
Devoted to the shade.
Ah! why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy ?— O, take the wanderer home!
"The shades, thy silence, now be mine.
Thy charms my only theme;
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine
Waves o'er the gloomy stream ;-
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away
To more profound repose.
"O, while to thee the woodland pours
Its wildly warbling song,
And balmy, from the bank of flowers,
The zephyr breathes along ;
Let no rude sound invade from far,
No vagrant foot be nigh,
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car
Flash on the startled eye.
"But if some pilgrim through the glade
Thy hallow'd bowers explore,
O guard from harm his hoary head,
And listen to his lore;
For he of joys Divine shall tell,
That wean from earthly woe,
And triumph o'er the mighty spell
That chains his heart below.
"For me, no more the path invites
Ambition loves to tread :
No more I climb those toilsome heights,
By guileful Hope misled :
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more
To Mirth's enlivening strain ;
For present pleasure soon is o'er,
And all the past is vain."
See how he strives to rescue from the flood
The drowning child, who, venturous in his pay,
Plunged from the slippery footing. With what joy
The brave deliverer feels those slender arms
Convulsive twining round his brawny neck,
And saves his master's boy!
Hath oft, amid St. Bernard's blinding snows,
Tracked the faint traveller, or unsealed the jaws Of the voracious avalanche, plucking thence
Of such a noble race, let him not lack
Aught of the kind requital that delights
His honest nature. When he comes at eve,
Laying his ample head upon thy knee,
And looking at thee with a glistening eye,
Repuise him not, but let him on the rug
Sleep fast and warm, beside thy parlor fire.
The lion-guard of all thou lovest is he,
Yet bows his spirit at thy least command
And crouches at thy feet. On his broad back
He bears the youngest darling, and endures
Long, with a wagging tail, the teasing sport
Of each mischievous imp. Enough for him
That they are thine.
"Tis but an olden theme
To sing the faithful dog. The storied page
Full oft has told his tried fidelity,
In legend quaint; yet if in this our world
True friendship is a scarce and chary plant,
It might be well to stoop and sow its seed
Even in the humble bosom of a brute.
-Slight nutriment it needs,-the kindly tone,
The sheltering roof, the fragments from the board,
The frank caress, or treasured word of praise
For deeds of loyalty.
A willing servant, and an earnest friend,
I came, but she was gone.
There lay her lute, just as she touched it last,
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat
Lay the still open work-box, and that book
Which last she read; its pencilled margin marked
By an ill-quoted passage-traced, perchance,
With hand unconscious, while her lover spoke
That dialect which brings forgetfulness
Of all beside. It was the cherished home
Where, from her childhood, she had been the star
Of hope and joy.
I came and she was gone,
Yet I had seen her from the altar led,
With silvery veil but slightly swept aside,
The fresh young rosebud deepening in her cheek,
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought
Of one who gives a priceless gift away.
And there was silence 'mid the gathering throng:
The strongest and the hard of heart did draw
Their breath suppressed to see the mother's lips
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire
Shrink as with sudden sorrow, when he gave
His darling to an untried guardianship,
Traversed the grass-grown prairies and the shore
Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs
And pathless mountain-tops, that rose to bar
Her long reared mansion from the anxious eye
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt
How strong and beautiful is woman's love,
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