CLIII. SNOWDROPS. Without, the dry trees groan and shiver, By the maiden's side on the couch were lying, Slowly she spake in a voice of sorrow "Yet a few hours, then droop and wither; Silently fade and fall with me; Far from the sun we will rest together, Shut from the sound of the moaning sea." Ah, poor maid! nor father nor mother Why wilt thou take the heart I cherished? P. S. Worsley. CLIV. HUSH! "I can scarcely hear," she murmured, 66 It is only the reapers singing, "Listen! there are voices talking," 66 It is only the children playing Fainter grew her voice and weaker, 66 It is only the deer that are feeding They are startled, and fly to the thicket, Now the night arose in silence, And the deer couched in the forest, Peace to the quiet Dead! Miss Procter. CLV. PERFECT REST. Where sunless rivers weep Led by a single star, She left the rosy morn, Thro' sleep, as through a veil, Rest, rest, a perfect rest She cannot see the grain Rest, rest, for evermore Rest rest at the heart's core Sleep that no pain shall wake, Her perfect peace. Q Miss Rosetti. CLVI. THE POET'S GRAVE. Let him rest! let him rest! With the green earth on his breast; The daisies grow about him and the long sedge-grasses wave. What call or right have you, Ye mercenary crew, To lift the pitying veil that shrouds him in the grave? Or tender nightingale, deep hidden in the bowers;— And that his heavenward eyes, Saw far beyond the clouds that dim this world of ours; And peer into his heart for flaws, and spots, and stains ? And all because his voice Bade multitudes rejoice, And cheered Humanity amid its griefs and pains? Let them rest, their sorrows o'er, And if, ye diggers-up of scandals dead and gone, Ye find, amid the slime, Some sin of ancient time, Some fault or seeming-fault, that Shakespeare might have done; Some spot on Milton's truth, Or Byron's glowing youth; Some error, not too small for microscopic gaze: Shroud it in deepest gloom, As on your father's tomb You'd hush the evil tongues that spoke in his dispraise. Shroud it in darkest night! Or, if compelled to write Tell us the inspiring tale of perils overcome: Of courage unsubdued, But let their frailties rest, and on their faults be dumb! Charles Mackay. CLVII. My days among the Dead are past; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, My never failing friends are they, With them I take delight in weal, And while I understand and feel My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead; with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead; anon Yet leaving here a name I trust, Southey. |