Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again;I cannot let thee rest!"
One long look, that sore reproved me For the woe I could not bear--
One mute look of suffering moved me To repent my useless prayer:
And, with sudden check, the heaving Of distraction passed away;Not a sign of further grieving Stirred my soul that awful day.
Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting;Sunk to peace the twilight breeze:
Summer dews fell softly, wetting Glen, and glade, and silent trees.
Then his eyes began to weary, Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;And their orbs grew strangely dreary, Clouded, even as they would weep.
But they wept not, but they changed not, Never moved, and never closed;Troubled still, and still they ranged not--
Wandered not, nor yet reposed!
So I knew that he was dying--
Stooped, and raised his languid head;Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, So I knew that he was dead.
SONG.
The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:
The wild deer browse above her breast;The wild birds raise their brood;And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude!
I ween, that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.
They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years;But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?
Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue--
The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.
And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer-streams--
There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.
ANTICIPATION.
How beautiful the earth is still, To thee--how full of happiness?
How little fraught with real ill, Or unreal phantoms of distress!
How spring can bring thee glory, yet, And summer win thee to forget December's sullen time!