Where the fondly-lov'd in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread! For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Darkness in chieftain's hall! Darkness in peasant's cot! While freedom, under that shadowy pall, Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize, Of England's homes again. MRS. HEMANS. From 1808 to 1835. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Come to the bridal chamber, Death;- The earthquake's shock, the ocean's storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought; When the land wind, from woods of palm, AMERICAN. I CANNOT see what flowers are at my feet, The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; And mid-May's eldest child The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death- To cease upon the midnight, with no pain; Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vainTo thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. Forlorn the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep? F. KEATS. From 1796 to 1821. THE lake is there, the hills their distance keep, Nor seek the widowed heart from grief to sever. For he is gone that was to us a smile, An honest face to welcome when he came; Short was the time, but yet a weary while When Death was struggling with the shattered frame. And many thoughts he had, as may be guessed, And shows of earth that with the vision blended: Shows that at times perplexed, but later blessed The spirit equipped just ere the strife was ended. Perhaps the latest object to employ His parting thought upon the death-bed pillow, Was the dear image of his orphan boy, With small foot challenging the frisky billow. Whatever sight or sound possessed him last, Whatever sound of nature tolled his knell, Gentle the sounds and fair the forms that past Before his closing eye, and all was well. Yes, all was well, for 'twas the will of Him Who knows both when to sow and when to reap; And now, amid the smiling cherubim, Beholds the tears of them he bade to weep. False is the creed, because the heart is dead, With human sorrow while they tarried here. We mourn, but not as mourners without hope. With every passion of a single soul. H. COLERIDGE. YE ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven |