True as the needle, homeward points his heart, This, the last wish that would with life depart, When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, -'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Immota manet; multosque nepotes, Multa virum volvens durando sæcula, vincit.-VIRG. ROUND thee, alas, no shadows move! From thee no sacred murmurs breathe! Yet within thee, thyself a grove, There once the steel-clad knight reclined, Then Culture came, and days serene; Father of many a forest deep, Whence many a navy thunder-fraught! Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep, Wont in the night of woods to dwell, A A Thy singed top and branches bare And the wan moon wheels round to glare TO TWO SISTERS.* WELL may you sit within, and, fond of grief, Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade, Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew? And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves! *On the death of a younger sister. |