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The gentle girl, that bow’d her fair young head, When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother, true friend the tender and the brave—
She pin'd to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others—but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot—
She lov'd thee—lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not.
Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy—what hath she
—Her own blest place by thee!
It was thy spirit, brother which had made
The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye play’d,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.
Ye were but two—and when that spirit pass'd,
Woe to the one, the last !
Woe, yet not long—she linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile ! its living light was o'er—
It answer'd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled—
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted 2–
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead.
Softly she perish’d—be the Flower deplor’d,
Here with the Lyre and Sword.
Have ye not met ere now —so let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years,
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
Brother, sweet sister' peace around ye dwell—
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee—
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight—
Where are those dreamers now f
One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep—
He was the lov’d of all, yet none
One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain ;
He wrapt his colors round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one—o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, Oh earth !
Go to the forest shade,
Seek thou the well-known glade
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie;
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,
Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep,
And bath'd in hues of summer's midnight sky.
Bring me their buds, to shed
Around my dying bed
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose;
For I, in sooth, depart
With a reluctant heart,
That sain would linger where the bright sun glows.
Fain would I stay with thee—
Alas ! this must not be ;
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours
Go where the fountain's breast
Catches, in glassy rest,
The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.