She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd, Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm And silver cords again to earth have won me; "How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying "And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn'd from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, "Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake, And watch for thy dear sake. "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a vail hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, A cry which none shall hear? "What have I said, my, child?-Will He not hear thee, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, "I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, And thou shalt be His child. "Therefore, farewell!-I go, my soul may fail me, But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. They grew in beauty, side by side; The same fond mother bent at night One, midst the forests of the west, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He was the loved of all, yet none One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd Above the noble slain: He wrapp'd his colors round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one-o'er her the myrtle showers The last of that bright band. They that with smiles lit up the hall, And naught beyond, oh earth! THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal argosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Earth claims not these again! Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll'd Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! Restore the dead, thou Sen! THE STRANGER'S HEART. The stranger's heart! oh! wound it not! In the green shadow of thy tree, Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves Thou think'st thy children's laughing play Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd- Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friend Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land- THE BETTER LAND. "I hear thee speak of the better land, "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, "Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?— And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?Is it there, sweet mother! that better land ?" "Not there, not there, my child! "Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- THE HOUR OF DEATH. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home; And the world calls us forth-and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! |