THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. FAIR is thy sight, Sorrento, green thy shore, Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree, Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. Yet even here, as under harsher climes, Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; That soft air saddens with the funeral-chimes, Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead. Here once a child, a smiling playful one, All the day long caressing and caressed, The father strove his struggling grief to quell, When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. Within an inner room his couch they spread, His funeral-couch; with mingled grief and love, They laid a crown of roses on his head, And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above." THE BATTLE-FIELD. They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, And orange-blossoms on their dark-green stems. And now the hour is come, the priest is there; The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; To climb the bed on which the infant lay. And there he sits alive, and gayly shakes In his full hands the blossoms red and white, And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes From long deep slumbers at the morning light. THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave— Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 181 No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou A friendless warfare! lingering long Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, Die full of hope and manly trust, Another hand thy sword shall wield, THE FUTURE LIFE. 183 THE FUTURE LIFE. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps When all of thee that time could wither sleeps For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, The love that lived through all the stormy past, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, A happier lot than mine, and larger light, In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The homes and haunts of humankind. Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, False Malay, uttering gentle words. How could he rest? even then he trod A ray upon his garments shone ; Shone and awoke the strong desire For love and knowledge reached not here, |