HE who in suffering was the Martyr-Chief,
Hath balm for all, whate'er the wound may be:
A shadowy path leads to a cloudless sphere,
But till ye gain it, know your home is here!"
"Who can bring healing to her heart's despair.
Her whole rich sum of happiness lies there."
PALE is his cheek with deep, impassioned thought,
Save when a feverish hectic crosses it,
Flooding its lines with crimson. From beneath
The long, dark fringes of its drooping lid
Flash forth the fitful glances of his eye
With an unearthly brightness. On that lid
The swelling brow weighs heavily, as though
Bursting with thought for utterance too intense!
His lip is curled with something too of pride
Which ill beseems the meekness and repose
That should, at such an hour, within his heart,
Spite of this world's vexations, be combined.
'Tis not disdain; for only those he loves
Are near him now, with soft, low-whispered words
Tendering heart-offered services, and watching,
With fond inquietude, the couch on which
His slender form reclines. What can it be?-
Perchance some rooted memory of the past;
Some dream of injured pride that fain would wreak
Its force on dumb expression ;-some fierce wrong
That his young soul hath suffered unappeased:
But thoughts like these must be dispelled before
That soul can plume its wings to part in peace.
And now his glance is lifted to the face
Of one who bends above him with an air
Of fond solicitude, and props his head,
With her own graceful arm, until at length
The sliding pillow is replaced; but, ere
His cheek may press on its uneven down,
Her delicate hand hath smoothed it.
Too well divineth he the voiceless woe
That breathes in each unbidden sigh, and beams
From her large, loving eyes! Too well he knows
That grief and keen anxiety for him.
Have chased the rose from her once brilliant check.
His quivering lips unclose, as if to pour
The fond acknowledgments of duteous love
In that sweet mourner's ear; but his parched tongue Its aid refuses. Gathering then each ray,
Each vivid ray, of feeling from his heart
Into a single focus, in his eye
His inmost soul is glassed, and love, deep love,
And grateful admiration, beam confessed
In one wild, passionate glance! The gentle girl
Basks her awhile in that full blaze, then stoops,
And, hiding her pale face upon his breast,
Murmurs sounds inarticulate but sweet
As the low wail of summer's evening breath
Amid the wind-harp strings. Then bursts the tide
Of woe that may no longer be repressed,
Stirred from its source by chill, hope-withering fears,
And from her charged lids big drops descend
In swift succession. With more tremulous hand
ON REVISITING A SCENE OF EARLY LIFE. 195
Clasps she the sufferer's neck. Upon his brow
The damps of death are settling, and his eyes
Grow fixed and meaningless. She marks the change
With desperate earnestness; and staying even
Her breath, that nothing may disturb the hush,
Lays her wan cheek still closer to his heart,
And listens, as its varying pulses move,
Haply to catch a sound betokening life.
It beats-again-another-and another,—
And now hath ceased for ever!
A shrill and soul-appalling shriek bursts forth,
When the full truth hath rushed upon her brain!
Who may describe the rigidness of frame,
The stony look of hopeless misery
With which she hangs o'er that unmoving clay!
Not I; my pencil hath no further power,
So here I'll drop the Grecian painter's veil!
ON REVISITING A SCENE OF EARLY LIFE.
"It is the same clear dazzling scene,
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice,
Does not so plainly say Rejoice.""
W. B. PROCTER.
SWEET pastoral Vale! when hope was young,
And life looked green and bright as thou,
Ere this world's toils or cares had flung
A shade of sadness on my brow,—
A loiterer in thy sylvan bowers,
I whiled away uncounted hours,
And by thine own sequestered stream, Poured forth in song love's first, wild dream!
Bright River, as it lapsed along
In glory, on its winding way,
Like Youth's first hopes, rejoicing, strong,
And full of heaven's own hues as they,—
I little thought that storms would fling
Their shadows o'er so fair a thing;
Or that my course would ever be
Less calm than then it seemed to me.
I came when wintry winds were high,
And storms were hurtling in the air;
Thy river rushed a torrent by,
Thy skies were dim, thy trees were bare; And that lone ruin erst that rose
An emblem of thy charmed repose,
Seemed struggling with the fitful blast,
Like some gaunt spectre of the Past.
A change was in my aching breast,
As dark as that I found in thee;
Thoughts, as thy waves impetuous, pressed
O'er my sad soul tumultuously,
As gazing on that altered scene,
I thought of what we both had been:
I see thee calm and fair once more;
When will my stormier day be o'er?
And thou art now a fairy dream
To stir the source of sweetest tears; Thy sun-touched fane, and sparkling stream, My beacon-lights to other years:
Oh, might my world-worn spirit close
Its weary pinions in repose,
I would not ask more perfect bliss
Than such a resting-place as this!
"Sweet flower! with flowers I strew thy narrow bed!
A CLOUD is on my heart and brow,
The tears are in my eyes,
And wishes fond, all idle now,
Are stifled into sighs;-
As musing on thine early doom,
The bud of beauty snatched to bloom,
So soon, 'neath milder skies,
I turn, thy painful struggle past,
From what thou art to what thou wast!
I think of all thy winning ways,
Thy frank but boisterous glee,
Thy arch, sweet smiles, thy coy delays,
Thy step, so light and free;
Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run,
Thy gladness, when the task was done,
And gained thy mother's knee ;-
Thy gay, good-humoured, childish ease,
And all thy thousand arts to please!
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