-Not so-the dead, the dead! An awestruck band,
In silence gathering round the silent stand,
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath,
Before the thing that, in the might of death,
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay—
A sleeper, dreaming not!—a youth with hair
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!)
O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay
Had touch'd those pale bright features-yet he wore
A mien of other days, a garb of yore.
Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng
A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim,
As if through many tears, through vigils long,
Through weary strainings :—all had been for him!
Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth's flower-and she, the living, stood
With her grey hair, whence hue and gloss had fled—
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood
Had long since ebb'd-a meeting sad and strange!
-O! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing—all her soul to fill
With the loved face once more-the young, fair face, 'Midst that rude cavern, touch'd with sculpture's
By torchlight and by death:-until at last
From her deep heart the spirit of the past
Gush'd in low broken tones:- "And there thou art!
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part
As for a few brief hours !-My friend, my friend!
First-love, and only one! Is this the end
Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted? Yet thy brow
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek Smiles-how unchanged!-while I, the worn, and weak,
And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!-a wither'd leaf,
Sear'd-though for thy sake-by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus ! For thou didst go,
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call'd thee! With the morning light
How have I watch'd for thee!-wept, wander'd,
pray'd,
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd,
In search of thee !-bound my worn life to one-
One torturing hope! Now let me die! 'Tis gone.
Take thy betroth'd!"-And on his breast she fell,
-Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love!-the true, the strong,
Joining in death whom life had parted long!
-They had one grave-one lonely bridal bed,
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed!
His name had ceased-her heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face, and die !
ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY.
TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!"
SING, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour'd!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, Our brethren of the sword!
ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY. 333
Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices
Have mingled with our own;
Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices,
Forget not who are gone!
They that stood with us, 'midst the dead and dying,
On Albuera's plain;
They that beside us cheerly track'd the flying,
Far o'er the hills of Spain;
They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo's wall,
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering,
First, first at Victory's call!
They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,
With England's blood the southern vineyards
Forget not how they fell!
Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour'd!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, Our brethren of the sword!
"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever-it may be a sound,
A tone of music, Summer eve, or Spring,
A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound."
YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear thou not-for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.
Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, And spirits that dwell where the water plays? Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers, That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!
Have I not lived 'midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells,
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows-yet unto which life seem'd bound;
And is it not-is it not haunted ground?
Must I not hear what thou hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here-with its flow of thought,
Love-with its passionate visions fraught;
Death-breathing stillness and sadness round-
And is it not is it not haunted ground?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?-
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!
may not linger amidst them here! Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.
Away, away
!-that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast
The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.
Doubt it not-smile not-but
go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grewWhere thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee, Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;
Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade;
Oh! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye,
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