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Tuou com'st, fair bark, in gallant pride,
Thy snow-white sails exulting spread; Nor I the graceful triumph chide,
For silent are the tears I shed.
Erewhile, when thou wert distant far,
Wandering on ocean's pathless waste, I hailed thee as my pilot star,
By thee my devious course was traced.
To thee, as to a hallowed shrine,
My sighs, my prayers were all addressed ; Thy pride, thy honour seemed but mine,
And in thy safety was my rest.
But now, though trophies deck thy brow,
A mournful wreck alone I see ;
For he who warmed each ardent vow,
No more a welcome asks of me.
He should have lived !- for Fortune owed
The kind redress, withheld too long, Whilst he life's dark and dreary road
Had still beguiled with Hope's sweet song.
He should have lived !-in suffering schooled,
But ne'er with fancied wrongs oppressed; For nature still o'er sorrow ruled,
And peace his guileless soul possessed.
Unskilled in caution's frigid lore,
He scorned suspicion's gloomy sway; Deceived, he trusted as before,
And dreams illumed each passing day.
And still in Albion's happy isle,
His little fairy home was placed ; Domestic love, affection's smile,
Were all the joys he sighed to taste.
How blest, to strive with toil no more,
To live for social cares alone, To soothe the ills that others bore,
As none had ever soothed his own!
How fair the scene by fancy cast,
Rich with affection's balmy breath, Ah dream! the loveliest, as the last,
That gilded the dark hour of death.
Even on his wandering soul it smiled,
When flitting shades around him pressed, A transient gleam of joy beguiled
His pangs—one moment he was blessed.
He saw the partner of his days,
Hailed each loved friend with ancient claim, And with a tender, lingering gaze,
Responded to the father's name.
And then he would a blessing breathe,
A pledge of Christian faith impart, And with a dower of love bequeath,
The latest counsels of his heart.
But then he saw the phantoms fade,
He gazed on strangers, rude and cold; His last fond look was hope betrayed,
His parting sigh, a wish untold.
My mother's grave, my
Oh! dreamless is her slumber there,
And drowsily the banners wave
O'er her that was so chaste and fair ;
Yea! love is dead and memory faded !
But when the dew is on the brake,
And silence sleeps on earth and sea,
And mourners weep, and ghosts awake,
Oh! then she cometh back to me,
In her cold beauty darkly shaded !
I cannot guess her face or form;
But what to me is form or face?
I do not ask the weary worm
To give me back each buried grace
Of glistening eyes, or trailing tresses !
I only feel that she is here,
And that we meet, and that we part;
And that I drink within mine ear,
And that I clasp around my heart, Her sweet, still voice, and soft caresses !
Not in the waking thought by day,
Not in the sightless dream by night,
Do the mild tones and glances play
Of her who was my cradle's light !
But in some twilight of calm weather,
She glides, by fancy dimly wrought,
A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,
With all the quiet of a thought,
And all the passion of a dream,
Linked in a golden spell together! Knight's Quarterly Magazine,
THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoofs tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains passed ; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and, with the leaves' low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
Wore man's mute anguish sternly; but of One,
Oh! who shall speak?—what words his brow unveil ?-
A father following to the grave his son !-
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow.
Through the wood-shadows moved the knightly train,
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low,-
Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain,
Stretched by a broken lance. They reached the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into high archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trod the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange, deep echo shuddered through the pile,
Till crested heads, at last, in silence bent
Round the De Couci's antique monument,
When dust to dust was given: and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft, o'er fields of Palestine :
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave,
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid,
In slumber, on his shield. Then all was done,
All still, around the dead. His name was heard,
Perchance, when wine-cups flowed, and hearts were stirred
By some old song, or tale of battle won
Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And, with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with their's. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side!
Alas, to think of this the heart's void place
Filled up so soon-so like a summer-cloud
All that we loved to pass, and leave no trace !-
He lay forgotten in his early shroud-
Forgotten?—not of all! The sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks, whose breezy wavings threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Amidst that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle,-these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing ;
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
From pictured windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love—a secret love and lowly;
And the rose, image of all things fleet and fair,
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,