THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS. And pour'd forth on each other's neck The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread The faces of the holy dead Rose as in vanish'd years; The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever blest, Oh! was it then a time to die? And peace might turn again: A ball swept forth-'t was guided well- 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, Flower! the laurel still may shed 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; THE SONG OF PENITENCE. 313 THE SONG OF PENITENCE.' UNFINISHED. He pass'd from earth Without his fame, -the calm, pure, starry fame Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Fill'd with the piety of tenderness, Is murmur'd to their children, when his name 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, Father in heaven! my dayspring's hour Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene Therefore, remembering what hath been, It is, it is-but Thou art gone, Or if the trembling shade Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone * THE IMAGE IN LAVA. THOU thing of years departed! Since here the mournful seal was set 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, And childhood's fragile image, Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Shut round each gentle guest? A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, Haply of that fond bosom On ashes here impress'd, Thou wert the only treasure, child! Perchance all vainly lavish'd And where it trusted, nought remain'd Far better, then, to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion'd grasp. 315 |