CXLIV. As thro' the land at eve we went, We fell out, my wife and I, And kissed again with tears. And blessings on the falling out When we fall out with those we love For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years, There above the little grave, A. Tennyson. Р CXLV. We watched her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seemed to speak, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, For when the morn came dim and sad, T. Hood. CXLVI. With her white hands claspt she sleepeth; heart is hushed and lips are cold; Death shrouds up her heaven of beauty, and a weary way I go, Like the sheep without a Shepherd on the wintry norland wold, With the face of day shut out by blinding snow. O'er its widowed nest my heart sits moaning for its young that's fled From this world of wail and weeping, gone to join her starry peers; And my light of life's o'ershadowed where the dear one lieth dead, And I'm crying in the dark with many fears. All last night-tide she seemed near me, like a lost beloved bird, Beating at the lattice louder than the sobbing wind and rain; And I called across the night with tender name and fond ling word; And I yearned out thro' the darkness, all in vain. Heart will plead, "Eyes cannot see her: they are blind with tears of pain;" And it climbeth up and straineth, for dear life to look and hark While I call her once again: but there cometh no refrain, And it droppeth down, and dieth in the dark. Gerald Massey. CXLVII. Bright be the place of thy soul! E'er burst from its mortal control, In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree Lord Byron. CXLVIII. Weep not for her whom the veil of the tomb, Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it; "Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it, To water that Eden where first was its source. Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly in dying, Were echoed in heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her-in her spring-time she flew T. Moore. |