Part 14

And, with sudden check, the heaving Of distraction passed away; Not a sign of further grieving Stirred my soul that awful day.

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting; Sunk to peace the twilight breeze: Summer dews fell softly, wetting Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary, Weighed beneath a mortal sleep; And their orbs grew strangely dreary, Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not, Never moved, and never closed; Troubled still, and still they ranged not-- Wandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying-- Stooped, and raised his languid head; Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, So I knew that he was dead.

SONG.

The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude!

I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer-streams-- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

ANTICIPATION.

How beautiful the earth is still, To thee--how full of happiness? How little fraught with real ill, Or unreal phantoms of distress! How spring can bring thee glory, yet, And summer win thee to forget December's sullen time! Why dost thou hold the treasure fast, Of youth's delight, when youth is past, And thou art near thy prime?

When those who were thy own compeers, Equals in fortune and in years, Have seen their morning melt in tears, To clouded, smileless day; Blest, had they died untried and young, Before their hearts went wandering wrong,-- Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong, A weak and helpless prey!

'Because, I hoped while they enjoyed, And by fulfilment, hope destroyed; As children hope, with trustful breast, I waited bliss--and cherished rest. A thoughtful spirit taught me soon, That we must long till life be done; That every phase of earthly joy Must always fade, and always cloy:

'This I foresaw--and would not chase The fleeting treacheries; But, with firm foot and tranquil face, Held backward from that tempting race, Gazed o'er the sands the waves efface, To the enduring seas-- There cast my anchor of desire Deep in unknown eternity; Nor ever let my spirit tire, With looking for WHAT IS TO BE!

"It is hope's spell that glorifies, Like youth, to my maturer eyes, All Nature's million mysteries, The fearful and the fair-- Hope soothes me in the griefs I know; She lulls my pain for others' woe, And makes me strong to undergo What I am born to bear.

Glad comforter! will I not brave, Unawed, the darkness of the grave? Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave-- Sustained, my guide, by thee? The more unjust seems present fate, The more my spirit swells elate, Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate Rewarding destiny!

THE PRISONER.

A FRAGMENT.

In the dungeon-crypts idly did I stray, Reckless of the lives wasting there away; "Draw the ponderous bars! open, Warder stern!" He dared not say me nay--the hinges harshly turn.

"Our guests are darkly lodged," I whisper'd, gazing through The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more gray than blue; (This was when glad Spring laughed in awaking pride;) "Ay, darkly lodged enough!" returned my sullen guide.

Then, God forgive my youth; forgive my careless tongue; I scoffed, as the chill chains on the damp flagstones rung: "Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear, That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters here?"

The captive raised her face; it was as soft and mild As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd child; It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair, Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there!

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow; "I have been struck," she said, "and I am suffering now; Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons strong; And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold me long."

Hoarse laughed the jailor grim: "Shall I be won to hear; Dost think, fond, dreaming wretch, that I shall grant thy prayer? Or, better still, wilt melt my master's heart with groans? Ah! sooner might the sun thaw down these granite stones.