Volume Ii Part 139 (1/2)

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll s.h.i.+ne o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

”AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT”

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING SHEPHERDS IN ARCADIA

Ah, happy youths, ah, happy maid, s.n.a.t.c.h present pleasure while ye may; Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade, Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay; Ye little think there comes a day ('Twill come to you, it came to me) When love and life shall pa.s.s away: I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Or listless lie by yonder stream, And muse and watch the ripples play, Or note their noiseless flow, and deem That life thus gently glides away-- That love is but a sunny ray To make our years go smiling by.

I knew that stream, I too could dream, I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Sing, shepherds, sing; sweet lady, listen; Sing to the music of the rill, With happy tears her bright eyes glisten, For, as each pause the echoes fill, They waft her name from hill to hill-- So listened my lost love to me, The voice she loved has long been still; I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

THRENODY

There's a gra.s.s-grown road from the valley-- A winding road and steep-- That leads to the quiet hill-top, Where lies your love asleep....

While mine is lying, G.o.d knows where, A hundred fathoms deep.

I saw you kneel at a grave-side-- How still a grave can be, Wrapped in the tender starlight, Far from the moaning sea!

But through all dreams and starlight, The breakers call to me.

Oh, steep is your way to Silence-- But steeper the ways I roam, For never a road can take me Beyond the wind and foam, And never a road can reach him Who lies so far from home.

Ruth Guthrie Harding [1882-

STRONG AS DEATH

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.