An Angel, wandering from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem.
But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired—
He, too, was struck, and, day by day,
Was withered on the stalk away.
Oh God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood :—
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of sin, delirious with its dread;
But these were horrors-this was woe
Unmixed with such-but sure and slow:
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender-kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sink away
As a departing rainbow's ray-
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright,
And not a word of murmur-not
A groan o'er his untimely lot,—
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence-lost
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress,
Of fainting nature's feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less;
I listened, but I could not hear-
I called, for I was wild with fear;
I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;
I called and thought I heard a sound—
I burst my chain with one strong bound,
I only stirred in this black spot,
And rushed to him:-I found him not,
I only lived-I only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon dew ;
The last-the sole the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath-
My brothers--both had ceased to breathe:
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive-
A frantic feeling,-when we know,
That what we love shall ne'er be so.
I know not why
I had no earthly hope-but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death.
Those evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When first I heard their soothing chime.
These joyous hours are passed away,
And many a friend that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
Whilst other bards shall wake these dells,
And sing thy praise, sweet evening bells!
With fruitless labour Clara bound,
And strove to staunch the gushing wound,
The priest, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the church's prayers,
Ever,' he said, That close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear;
For that she ever sung,
• In the lost battle borne down by the flying,
'Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying.'
So the notes rung
Avoid thee, fiend, with cruel hand,
Why shake the dying sinner's sand?
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ;
Oh think of faith and love.
By many a deathbed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.-'
The war that for a space did fail
Now trebly thundered on the gale,
And Stanley' was the cry.
A light o'er Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted Victory.'
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