But, though so fast The waves he pass'd, That boat seem'd never the nearer. Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated; While on the prize His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doated: While the waves o'ertop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon through heaven did hie her, Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before! For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, THE STRANGER. COME list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music reëcho around. None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, Her language, though sweet, none could e'er un derstand; But her features so sunn'd, and her eyelash so shady Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land. Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weep ing, Like music that Sorrow had steep'd in her tears. We thought 't was an anthem some angel had sung But, soon as the day-beams had gush'd from on high, With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if stray'd from the sky. Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, And light from another already shines through. Then her eyes, when she sung-oh, but once to have seen them Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart. But she pass'd like a day-dream, no skill could restore her Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her, That song of past days on her lips to the last. Nor ev'n in the grave is her sad heart reposing Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard through the gloom. |