When on the weary night dawned heavier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone: That I outlive such woes, Enchantress! is thy own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps stow retire, Some spirit of the air has waked thy string! 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire; 'Tis now the brush of fairy's frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring, Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell; And now 'tis silent all!-Enchantress, fare thee well! THE MOURNERS. Eliza Cook. KING Death sped forth in his dreaded power, To make the most of his tyrant hour; And the first he took was a white-robed girl, With the orange-bloom twined in each glossy curl. Her fond betrothed hung over the bier, He madly raved, he shrieked his pain, 'There's no joy,' cried he, 'now my dearest is gone; Take, take me, Death, for I cannot live on!' The sire was robbed of his eldest-born, And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn; 'My hopes are crushed!' was the father's cry, A mother was taken, whose constant love grown, Like ivy to oak or the moss to the stone. would be!' Death smiled as he heard each earnest word: 'Nay, nay,' said he, 'be this work deferred; I'll see thee again in a fleeting year, And if grief and devotion live on sincere, Then, if thou cravest the coffin and pall As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall. And Death fled, till Time, on his rapid wing, Gave the hour that brought back the skeleton king. But the lover was ardently wooing again, Rarer than that he had worshipped before. 'Ha! ha!' shouted Death, "tis passing clear That I am a guest not wanted here.' The father was seen in his children's games, Kissing their flushed brows and blessing their names. And his eye grew bright as he marked the charms Of the boy at his knee and the girl in his arms. His voice rang out in their merry noise; He was first in all their hopes and joys; He ruled their sports in the setting sun. Nor gave a thought to the missing one. 'Are ye ready?' cried Death, as he raised his dart; 'Nay, nay!' shrieked the father, 'in mercy depart!' The friend again was quaffing the bowl, But the orphan child! oh, where was she? Hers was the love all holy and strong; Death lingered there, and paused awhile; 'There's a solace,' cried she, 'for all others to find, But a mother leaves no equal behind.' And the kindest blow Death ever gave, INGRATITUDE. Shakespere. BLOW, blow, thou winter wind, As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Although thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Though thou the waters warp, As friend remembered not. |