But our task is still to bear,
Still to breathe in changeful air;
Loved and bright things to resign,
As even now this dust of thine;
Yet to hope!-to hope in Heaven,
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven-
Yet to pray and wait the hand
Beckoning to the Fatherland!"
And the requiem died in the forest's gloom;
They had reach'd the Exile's lonely tomb.
Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy? What should the cloud be made of?-blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet mild:
And now thou tremblest!—wherefore?—in thy soul
There lies no past, no future.-Thou hast heard
No sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word.
From thee no love hath gone; thy mind's young eye
Hath look'd not into Death's, and thence become
A questioner of mute Eternity,
A weary searcher for a viewless home:
Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain,
By feverish watching for some step beloved;
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train,
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved.
Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd,
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of sleep!
My gentle child! 'midst what dim phantoms lost,
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep?
Awake! they sadden me-those early tears,
First gushings of the strong dark river's flow,
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years,
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe!
Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream,
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes!
Wake, wake! as yet thy life's transparent stream
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies.
Come from the shadow of those realms unknown,
Where now thy thoughts dismay'd and darkling rove;
Come to the kindly region all thine own,
The home, still bright for thee with guardian love.
Happy, fair child! that yet a mother's voice
Can win thee back from visionary strife!-
Oh! shall my soul, thus waken'd to rejoice,
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life?
Oh! that those lips had language!-Life hath pass'd
With me but roughly since I saw thee last.
THINE eyes are charm'd-thine earnest eyes
Thou image of the dead!
A spell within their sweetness lies,
A virtue thence is shed.
Oft in their meek blue light enshrined,
A blessing seems to be,
And sometimes there my wayward mind
A still reproach can see.
And sometimes Pity-soft and deep,
And quivering through a tear;
Even as if Love in Heaven could weep,
For Grief left drooping here.
And oh my spirit needs that balm,
Needs it 'midst fitful mirth;
And in the night-hour's haunted calm,
And by the lonely hearth.
Look on me thus, when hollow praise
Hath made the weary pine
For one true tone of other days,
One glance of love like thine!
THE CHARMED PICTURE.
Look on me thus, when sudden glee
Bears my quick heart along,
On wings that struggle to be free,
As bursts of skylark song.
In vain, in vain!-too soon are felt
The wounds they cannot flee;
Better in childlike tears to melt,
Pouring my soul on thee!
Sweet face that o'er my childhood shone,
Whence is thy power of change,
Thus ever shadowing back my own,
The rapid and the strange?
Whence are they charm'd-those earnest eyes?
-I know the mystery well!
In mine own trembling bosom lies
The spirit of the spell!
Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born-
Oh! change no longer, thou!
For ever be the blessing worn
On thy pure thoughtful brow!
One struggle more and I am free. - BYRON.
LEAVE me, oh! leave me! - unto all below
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell;
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go,
Too mighty in their loveliness-farewell,
That I may part in peace!
Leave me!thy footstep, with its lightest sound, The very shadow of thy waving hair,
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound,
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bearOh! bid the conflict cease!
I hear thy whisper-and the warm tears gush
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart;
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush,
The still submission, from my thoughts depart;
Dear one! this must not be.
The past looks on me from thy mournful eye,
The beauty of our free and vernal days;
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky-
Oh! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze!
Thou art all earth to me!
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