Page images

And it was told her how he strove

With death; but not from selfish fear: 'Twas the memory of her love

Which made existence doubly dear.

They told her how his fevered sleep

Revealed the phantom of his brainHe thought his love had come to keep

Her vigils at his couch of pain ; And he would speak in his soft tone,

And stretch his arms to clasp the air, And then awaken with a moan,

And weep that there was nothing there.

And when he bowed himself at last

Beneath the spoiler's cold eclipse, Even as the weary spirit passed,

Her name was on his marble lips. She heard the tale; she did not weep;

It was too strangely sad for tears ; And so she kept it for the deep

Rememberings of after years.

She poured one lone and plaintive wail

For the loved dead-it was her lastLike harp-tones dying, on the gale

Her minstrelsy of spirit passed :
And she became an altered one,

Forgetful of her olden shrine,
As if her darkened soul had done
With all beneath the fair sunshine.



SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light

As the red birds that nestle secure on the spray; Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright

As the dew-drops that sparkle around with the ray.

O, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast;

In the wild wood, Sleep cradles in roses thy head; Out her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed,

He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.

I fear for thy father! why stays he so long

On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song,

So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone.

He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe,

Where the foe in the moonbeams his path may descry, The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true,

And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry!

The Power that is round us--whose presence is near,

In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soulProtect that lone bark in its lonely career,

And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll!



My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,

And thy spirit will sigh to roam;
And thou must go; but never, when there,

Forget the light of home.

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,

It dazzles to lead astray ;
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night,

When thou treadest the lonely way.

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,

And pure as vestal fire: 'Twill burn, 'twill burn, for ever the same,

For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest tost,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam;
But when sails are shivered and rudder lost,

Then look to the light of home;

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,

Thou shalt see the beacon bright; For never, till shining on thy shroud,

Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of fame, 'twill gild the name;

But the heart ne'er felt its ray ;
And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim,

Are but beams of a wintry day.

And how cold and dim those beams must be,

Should life's wretched wanderer come! But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee,

Then turn to the light of home.



Yes, dear one, to the envied train

Of those around thy homage pay ; But wilt thou never kindly deign

To think of him that's far away?
Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile,

For many years I may not see;
But wilt thou not sometimes the while,

My sister dear, remember me?

But not in Fashion's brilliant hall,

Surrounded by the gay and fair, And thou the fairest of them all,

O, think not, think pot of me there

But when the thoughtless crowd is gone,

And hushed the voice of senseless glee, And all is silent, still, and lone,

And thou art sad, remember me.

Remember me—but, loveliest, ne'er,

When, in his orbit fair and high, The morning's glowing charioteer

Rides proudly up the blushing sky; But when the waning moonbeam sleeps

At moonlight on that lonely lea, And nature's pensive spirit weeps

In all her dews, remember me.

Remember me, I pray—but not

In Flora's gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note,

And sunshine smiles in every flower; But when the falling leaf is sere,

And withers sadly from the tree, And o'er the ruins of the year

Cold autumn weeps, remember me.

Remember me--but choose not, dear,

The hour when, on the gentle lake, The sportive wavelets, blue and clear,

Soft rippling, to the margin break; But when the deafening billows foam

In madness o'er the pathless sea, Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam

Across them, and remember me.

« PreviousContinue »