With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine. O sister if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppressed, Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?" "Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears. But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim." "Yes! I will take the silvery lute-and I will sing to thee A song we heard in childhood's days, even from our father's knee. O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things? Do they not linger as in love on the familiar strings? Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the strain? Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say, shall it plead in vain ? "O sister! hush that thrilling lute !-oh, cease that haunting lay! Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes-yet, yet, I cannot stay: For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whispered call In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here; my spirit pines to dwell Where the world's voice can reach no more! Oh, calm Fare-thee-well!" thee! THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO [SUGGESTED by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.] SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering Sea ! My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee To its own ceaseless cry-" Alone, alone!" Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease! Oh let your secret caves be stirred, Away! my weary soul hath sought One answer to consuming thought Sound on, thou dark unslumbering Sea ! I ask not, alien world! from thee And yet I loved that earth so well, With all its lovely things! Was it for this the death-wind fell On my rich lyre, and quenched its living strings? DIRGE Let them lie silent at my feet! Since, broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet Hath poured on desert sands its wealth away. Yet glory's light hath touched my name, With a lone heart, a weary frame, O restless Deep! I come to make them thine. Give to that crown, that burning crown, Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest! Thou hast thy love, thy home; They wait thee in the quiet nest, 189 And I, the unsought, unwatched-for-I too come! I, with this wingèd nature fraught, These visions wildly free, This boundless love, this fiery thought— Alone I come-oh! give me peace, dark Sea! DIRGE WHERE shall we make her grave? Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heardThere-lay her there! Harsh was the world to her- Low on sweet nature's breast Let the meek heart find rest, Murmur, glad waters! by; That green and mossy bed, What though for her in vain Yet still, from where she lies, Therefore let song and dew And o'er that holy earth Scents of the violet's birth Still come and go ! Oh! then, where wild-flowers wave, Make ye her mossy grave, |