Start forth, then sink again in night. I gazed around, yet half in fear, Till Walter told me to draw near⚫ And in the strange and flickering light, Towards the Lady's bed I crept; All folded round with snowy white, She lay; (one would have said she slept ;) So still the look of that white face, It seemed as it were carved in stone, I paused before I dared to place Within her cold white hand my own. But, with a smile of sweet surprise, She turned to me her dreamy eyes; And slowly, as if life were pain, She drew me in her arms to lie: She strove to speak, and strove in vain ; Each breath was like a long-drawn sigh. The throbs that seemed to shake her breast, The trembling clasp, so loose and weak, At last grew calmer, and at rest; And then she strove once more to speak: "My God, I thank thee, that my pain Of day by day and year by year, Has not been suffered all in vain, And I may die while he is near. I will not fear but that Thy grace Has swept away my sin and woe, And sent this little angel face, In my last hour to tell me so."
(And here her voice grew faint and low,)
"My child, where'er thy life may go, To know that thou art brave and true, Will pierce the highest heavens through, And even there my soul shall be
More joyful for this thought of thee." She folded her white hands, and stayed; All cold and silently she lay :
I knelt beside the bed, and prayed The prayer she used to make me say. I said it many times, and then She did not move, but seemed to be In a deep sleep, nor stirred again. No sound woke in the silent room, Or broke the dim and solemn gloom, Save when the brands that burnt so low, With noisy fitful gleam of light, Would spread around a sudden glow, Then sink in silence and in night.
How long I stood I do not know: At last poor Walter came, and said (So sadly) that we now must go, And whispered, she we loved was dead. He bade me kiss her face once more, Then led me sobbing to the door. I scarcely knew what dying meant, Yet a strange grief, before unknown, Weighed on my spirit as we went And left her lying all alone.
We went to the far North once more,
To seek the well-remembered home, Where my poor kinsman dwelt before, Whence now he was too old to roam; And there six happy years we past, Happy and peaceful till the last; When poor old Walter died, and he Blessed me and said I now might be A sailor on the deep blue sea. And so I go; and yet in spite Of all the joys I long to know, Though I look onward with delight, With something of regret I go; And young or old, on land or sea, One guiding memory I shall take- Of what She prayed that I might be, And what I will be for her sake!
SORROW, wet with early tears
Yet bitter, had been long with me; I wearied of this weight of years, And would be free.
I tore my Sorrow from my heart, I cast it far away in scorn; Right joyful that we two could part- Yet most forlorn.
I sought, (to take my Sorrow's place,) Over the world for flower or gem- But she had had an ancient grace Unknown to them.
I took once more with strange delight My slighted Sorrow; proudly now, I wear it, set with stars of light, Upon my brow.
HE feast is spread through England For rich and poor to-day;
Greetings and laughter may be there, But thoughts are far away;
Over the stormy ocean,
Over the dreary track,
Where some are gone, whom England Will never welcome back.
Breathless she waits, and listens For every eastern breeze That bears upon its bloody wings
News from beyond the seas.
The leafless branches stirring Make many a watcher start; The distant tramp of steed may send A throb from heart to heart.
The rulers of the nation,
The poor ones at their gate, With the same eager wonder The same great news await. The poor man's stay and comfort, The rich man's joy and pride, Upon the bleak Crimean shore Are fighting side by side.
The bullet comes-and either A desolate hearth may see; And God alone to-night knows where The vacant place may be ! The dread that stirs the peasant
Thrills nobles' hearts with fear--
Yet above selfish sorrow
Both hold their country dear.
The rich man who reposes
In his ancestral shade, The peasant at his ploughshare,
The worker at his trade,
Each one his all has perilled,
Each has the same great stake, Each soul can but have patience,
Each heart can only break!
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