Her widowhood, and sorrows, follow'd her To have found, some plaything of their infant hours. Within the echoes of a ruin'd court Melodious in sorrow, like the sound Silverly sweet, so that the lovely tribe The first and fairest of that sunny land, with power And beauty, doubly now discrown'd and fallen ? Oh! none would harm her, only she herself; And chiefly then when they would hold her back, And sue her to take comfort in her home, Or the rose-bowers along the river-shore And the wild ivy flutter'd, and the rains Wept thro' the roofless ruins, and all seem'd Shone as a wintry sun; she never smil❜d, And her sad eyes unclos'd before his beams, And call'd for retribution on the Gods, Crying, "O save me from Him, He is there; Oh, let me wear my little span of life. I am a worthless thing, a childless mother, Thou who hast snatch'd my hopes and my delights, Thou who hast kill'd my children, wouldst Where they were gather'd, cold as is my heart! Oh! if my living lot be bitterness, "T is sweeter than to think, that, if I go Down to the dust, then I shall think no more Of them I lov'd and lost, the thoughts of whom Are all my being, and shall speak no more, In answer to their voices in my heart, As though it were mine ear, rewording all Their innocent delights, and fleeting pains, Their infant fondnesses, their little wants, And simple words. Oh! while I am, I dream Of those who are not; thus my anguish grows My solace, as the salt surf of the seas Clothes the sharp crags with beauty." Then her mood Would veer to madness, like a windy change That brings up thunder, and she rais'd her voice, Crying, "And yet they are not, they who were, And never more shall be accursed dreams!" And, suddenly becoming motionless, And, full of awful resignation, fixing Charles Tenmpson Turner How oft we watch'd him, when the night hours came, His poor head buried near his bursting heart, Which beat within a puff'd and troubled frame; But he has gone at last, and play'd his part: The seed-glass, slighted by his sickening taste, The little moulted feathers, saffron-tipp'd, The fountain, where his fever'd bill was dipp'd, The perches, which his failing feet embraced, All these remain - not even his bath remov'd But where's the spray and flutter that we lov'd? That heavenly guidance humble sorrow hath, Had turn'd my feet into that forest-way, Just when His morning light came down the path, Among the lonely woods at early day. THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE As on my bed at dawn I mus'd and pray'd, I saw my lattice prank'd upon the wall, The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal A sunny phantom interlaced with shade ; "Thanks be to heaven," in happy mood I said, "What sweeter aid my matins could befall Than the fair glory from the East hath made? What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all, To bid us feel and see! we are not free And, at prime hour, behold! He follows me With golden shadows to my secret rooms." THE ROOKERY METHOUGHT, as I beheld the rookery pass Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind, How every heart in that close-flying mass Was well befriended by the Almighty mind: He marks each sable wing that soars or drops, He sees them forth at morning to their fare, He sets them floating on His evening air, He sends them home to rest on the treetops: And when through umber'd leaves the night-winds pour, With lusty impulse rocking all the grove, The stress is measur'd by an eye of love, No root is burst, though all the branches roar; And, in the morning, cheerly as before, The dark clan talks, the social instincts move. ORION How oft I've watch'd thee from the garden croft, In silence, when the busy day was done, Shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft, And flickering like a casement 'gainst the sun! I've seen thee soar from out some snowy cloud, Which held the frozen breath of land and sea, Yet broke and sever'd as the wind grew loud But earth-bound winds could not dismember thee, Nor shake thy frame of jewels; I have guess'd At thy strange shape and function, haply felt The charm of that old myth about thy belt And sword; but, most, my spirit was possess'd By His great Presence, Who is never far From his light-bearers, whether man or star. TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT QUICK gleam, that ridest on the gossamer! How oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance, And, failing that, I search the lawns and bowers, To find thee floating o'er the fruits and flowers, And doing thy sweet work in silence there. thread She smil❜d upon him, waking or at rest: She could not dream her little child would die : She toss'd him fondly with an upward eye: She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, That dances with a blossom on its breast, Nor knows how soon it will be borne away. |