OFT in the after days, when thou and I
Have fallen from the scope of human view,
When, both together, under the sweet sky
We sleep beneath the daisies and the dew,
Men will recall thy gracious presence bland,
Conning the pictured sweetness of thy face;
Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand,
And vaunt thy skill and tell thy deeds of grace.
Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true bays,
Saying, "What love unto her son she bore!"
Make this addition to thy perfect praise,
"Nor ever yet was mother worshipped more!"
So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame
Shall link my love unto thine honoured name.
IN PROSPECT OF DEATH.
WHEN I shall die-and be it late or soon-
Let merciful memories be my only shroud.
Think me a light veiled in a morning cloud;
Living to knowledge,-like a finished moon,
Though nothing here, to other lands a boon:
Nor let my death give triumph to the proud,
By your weak tears: be happy with the crowd,
Who, spite of woe, are seldom out of tune.
Wise in the common instinct, be ye glad:
There's some redemption in the doom of death That cuts us from new sins-sweet mercy's plan. Yet, if for me you be sincerely sad,
Do this sweet homage to my valued breath-
Ease the sad burden of some living man!
I WILL not rail, or grieve when torpid eld
Frosts the slow-journeying blood, for I shall see
The lovelier leaves hang yellow on the tree,
The nimbler brooks in icy fetters held.
Methinks the aged eye that first beheld
The fitful ravage of December wild,
Then knew himself indeed dear Nature's child, Seeing the common doom, that all compelled. No kindred we to her beloved broods
If, dying these, we drew a selfish breath; But one path travel all her multitudes,
And none disputes the solemn Voice that saith : "Sun to thy setting; to your autumn, woods;
Stream to thy sea; and man unto thy death!"
POET, whose unscarr'd feet have trodden Hell,
By what grim path and dread environing
Of fire couldst thou that dauntless footstep bring
And plant it firm amid the dolorous cell
Of darkness where perpetually dwell
The spirits cursed beyond imagining?
Or else is thine a visionary wing,
And all thy terror but a tale to tell?
Neither and both, thou seeker! I have been
No wilder path than thou thyself dost go,
Close mask'd in an impenetrable screen,
Which having rent I gaze around, and know
What tragic wastes of gloom, before unseen,
Curtain the soul that strives and sins below.
At last 'tis gone, the fever of the day,—
Thank God, there comes an end to everything;
Under the night-cloud's deepened shadowing,
The noises of the city drift away
Thro' sultry streets and alleys; and the grey
Fogs round the great cathedral rise and cling.
I long, and long, but no desire will bring
Against my face the keen wind salt with spray.
O far away, green waves, your voices call,
Your cool lips kiss the wild and weedy shore;
And out upon the sea-line, sails are brown,—
White sea-birds, crying, hover,-soft shades fall,
Deep waters dimple round the dripping oar,
And last rays light the little fishing-town.
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