At length the Father, vain his power to save,
Follows his child in silence to the grave,
(That child how cherished, whom he would not give,
Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live ;)
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade
Scatters the earth as "dust to dust" is said,
Takes a last look and goes; his best relief
Consoling others in that hour of grief,
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing.
But hark, the din of arms! no time for sorrow. To horse, to horse! A day of blood to-morrow! One parting pang, and then-and then I fly, Fly to the field, to triumph-or to die!— He goes, and Night comes as it never came ! With shrieks of horror!—and a vault of flame! And lo! when morning mocks the desolate, Red runs the river by; and at the gate
Breathless a horse without his rider stands !
But hush!.. a shout from the victorious bands!
And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored!
One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword;
One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all
Spring to prepare the soldier's festival;
While She best-loved, till then forsaken never,
Clings round his neck as she would cling for ever!
Such golden deeds lead on to golden days,
Days of domestic peace-by him who plays
On the great stage how uneventful thought;
Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught,
A thousand incidents that stir the mind
To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind!
Such as the heart delights in—and records
Within how silently-in more than words!
A Holiday-the frugal banquet spread
On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head
With quips and cranks-what time the wood-lark there
Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air,
What time the king-fisher sits perched below,
Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow:-
A Wake—the booths whitening the village-green,
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen;
Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled,
Picturing at large the wonders of the world;
And far and wide, over the vicar's pale,
Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale,
All, all abroad, and music in the gale:-
A Wedding-dance-a dance into the night
On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light;
But every step is on enchanted ground.
Danger thou lov'st, and Danger haunts thee round.
Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side;
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ?
Draws, and cries ho; and, where the sun-beams fall,
At his own shadow thrusts along the wall?
Who dances without music;
Sings like the lark-then sighs as woe-begone,
And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave,
Glides in the moon-shine by a maiden's grave?
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow.
Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou.
He hears me not-Those sighs were from the heart.
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part.
He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere,
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear,
Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear
That none were half so faultless, half so fair,
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer,
A banished man, flying when none are near;
And writes on every tree, and lingers long
Where most the nightingale repeats her song;
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove,
Delights to syllable the names we love.
Two on his steps attend, in motley clad; One woeful-wan, one merrier yet as mad; Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells, And flowers spring up among the woodland dells. To Hope he listens, wandering without measure Thro' sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure; And, if to Fear but for a weary mile,
Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile.
At length he goes-a Pilgrim to the Shrine,
And for a relic would a world resign!
A glove, a shoe-tye, or a flower let fall—
What though the least, Love consecrates them all!
And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse;
Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse
At early matins ('twas at matin-time
That first he saw and sickened in his prime)
And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold,
Plays with young hearts that will not be controlled.
"Absence from Thee-as self from self it seems!"
Scaled is the garden-wall; and lo, her beams
Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing
His well-known form along the terrace stealing.
-Oh, ere in sight he came, 'twas his to thrill
A heart that loved him though in secret still.
"An idle dream? Nightly it visits me!
-That strain," she cries, " as from the water rose. "Now near and nearer through the shade it flows !
Now sinks departing-sweetest in its close!"
No casement gleams; no Juliet, like the day,
Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay.
Still, like aërial music heard from far,
Nightly it rises with the evening-star.
"She loves another! Love was in that sigh!"
On the cold ground he throws himself to die.
Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most deceiving.
Who wish are fearful; who suspect, believing.
-And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow.
Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now!
She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his cause
Nor yet-nor yet her hand from his withdraws;
But by some secret Power surprised, subdued,
(Ah how resist? And would she if she could?)
Falls on his neck as half unconscious where,
Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there.
Then come those full confidings of the past;
All sunshine now, where all was overcast.
Then do they wander till the day is gone,
Lost in each other; and when Night steals on,
|