THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.

And pour'd forth on each other's neck
Such tears as warriors need not check.

The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread
All melted with those tears,

The faces of the holy dead

Rose as in vanish'd years;

The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest,
Lifted its voice in each full breast!

Oh! was it then a time to die?
It was! that not in vain
The soul of childhood's purity

And peace might turn again:

A ball swept forth-'t was guided well-
Heart unto heart those brothers fell!

Happy, yes, happy thus to go!

Bearing from earth away Affections, gifted ne'er to know

A shadow-a decay,

A passing touch of change or chill,

A breath of aught whose breath can kill.

And they, between whose sever'd souls,

Once in close union tied,

A gulf is set, a current rolls

For ever to divide ;

Well may they envy such a lot,

Whose hearts yearn on- but mingle not.

321

And the lime-leaf doth not move,
Save to songs that stir the grove,
And earth all glorified is seen,
As imaged in some lake serene;
-Then thy vanishing should be,
Pure and meek Anemone!

Flower! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor's head;
And the rose in beauty's hair
Still its festal glory wear;

And the willow-leaves droop o'er

Brows which love sustains no more:

But by living rays refined,

Thou, the trembler of the wind,

Thou, the spiritual flower

Sentient of each breeze and shower,

Thou, rejoicing in the skies,

And transpierced with all their dyes;
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing
Thou the poet's type shall be,
Flower of soul, Anemone!

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.

313

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.'

UNFINISHED.

He pass'd from earth

Without his fame, -the calm, pure, starry fame
He might have won, to guide on radiantly
Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not;
And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd
The wayward child of genius. And the songs
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,
Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed,
They died before him ;-they were winged seed,
Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock

Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone,
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,

That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,

Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,

Is murmur'd to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices, far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.

Suggested by the late Mrs. Fletcher's Story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.

I come alone, and faint I come,

To nature's arms I flee;

The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?

The earliest odour of the flower,
The bird's first song, is thine;

Father in heaven! my dayspring's hour
Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;

Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is-but Thou art gone,

Or if the trembling shade

Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd.

*

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,

Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony?

1 The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image,
Thus fearfully enshrined,
Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs—
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impress'd,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish'd
Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, nought remain'd
But thorns on which to lean.

Far better, then, to perish,

Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and lose thee, precious one!

From that impassion'd grasp.

315