Though earth received them in her bed, There is an eye which could not brook I will not ask where thou liest low, There flowers or weeds at will may grow, It is enough for me to prove That what I loved, and long must love, To me there needs no stone to tell, Yet did I love thee to the last, Who didst not change through all the past, The love where death has set his seal, Nor falsehood disavow: And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine. The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine, That all those charms have pass'd away, I might have watch'd through long decay. The flower, in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd, Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, I know not if I could have borne The night that follow'd such a morn As stars that shoot along the sky As once I wept, if I could weep, To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, Yet how much less it were to gain, The all of thine that cannot die, And more thy buried love endears BYRON. TO A SPIRIT IN HEAVEN. LIKE a young bird careering in the blast, To live on tears, and breathe but in a sigh: Sear'd by the lightnings in its verdant prime, A transient light, an exhalation brief, A sweet flower withering from its native clime. I weep that thou art gone, and yet mine eyes Hold joy's bright dew-drop, more than sorrow's rain. And why? Because I know that thou dost rise, With phenix wing, beyond the range of pain. I feel that the sear'd leaf, the wither'd flower, Unto its "native clime" is now restored, To bud and bloom where no dark clouds may low'r, Nor earth's cold blighting mists have ever soar'd Feel that the glory of thy spirit,—here But for a moment flashing its soft rays,-Lives brighter in a higher, holier sphere, And, in the smile of God, eternally shall blaze. W. MARTIN, LAMENT. WHY should man strive to dream of bliss That is not his? Or cling to that all-gaudy show, That is but woe? All that is lovely, pure, and fair, Death will not spare. The speckless azure of the sky Is mockery; The sleep that smiles upon the deep, The things for which we kneel and pray, The longings that our bosoms fill But cheat us still; The hopes, that from the heart arise, Are wing'd by sighs. The blossoms of our early years Are gem'd by tears. The thoughts that we to heaven would give, Alone survive This world's deceit; and, while we grieve, Still whisper "Live." W. MARTIN. BIRDS. AN INVOCATION TO BIRDS. COME all ye feathery people of mid air, Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain sum mits Lie down with the wild winds; and ye who build Dusk creature, who art silent all day long, And with it enrich our ears: come all to me, BARRY CORNWALL. |