CCXCVI

STANZAS

GENTLE mourner, fondly dreaming
O'er the grave of buried years,
Where the cold pale stars are gleaming
Far along this vale of tears ;-

Fond enthusiast, wildly gazing

From the towers of childhood's home,

On the visioned beacon's blazing

Bright o'er ocean's sun-flushed foam ;

Hope's false mirage hides the morrow,
Memory gilds the days gone by;

Give not thy young life to sorrow,

Trust not joys that bloom to die.

Fiercest throbs the pulse of gladness,
Heralding a darker day;

Sweetest spring from thoughts of sadness
Eden flowers that ne'er decay.

Here, of mirth and anguish blended,
Joys are born that cannot cloy,
Ending-not till life is ended-

In the painless endless joy.

H. N. OXENHAM.

CCXCVII

DEPARTED JOYS

AMONGST the thunder-splintered caves,
On ocean's long and windy shore,
I catch the voice of dying waves
Below the ridges old and hoar;

The spray descends in silver showers,
And lovely whispers come and go,
Like echoes from the happy hours
I never more may hope to know!

The moonlight dreams upon the sail

That drives the restless ship to sea; The clouds troop past the mountain vale, And sink like spirits down the lee;

Why comes thy voice, thou lonely One,
Along the wild harp's wailing strings?

Have not our hours of meeting gone,

Like fading dreams on phantom wings?

Are not the grasses round thy grave

Yet springing green and fresh to view? And does the gleam on Ocean's wave Tide gladness now to me and you?

H. C. KENDALL.

CCXCVIII

AN EPITAPH

THE pledge we wore I wear it still,
But where is thine? Oh! where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now.

Well has thou left, in silent gloom,
The cup of woe for me to drain ;
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again.

CCXCIX

ANON.

THE MARRIAGE RING

THE ring so worn, as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold;
The passion such it was to prove,—
Worn with life's care, love yet was love.

G. CRABBE.

CCC

THE FUNERAL FEAST

OH think not that with garlands crown'd
Inhuman near thy grave we tread,

Or blushing roses scatter round,

To mock the paleness of the dead.

What though we drain the fragrant bowl
In flowers adorn'd, and silken vest;
Oh think not, brave departed soul,
We revel to disturb thy rest.

Feign'd is the pleasure that appears,
And false the triumph of our eyes;
Our draughts of joy are dash'd with tears,
Our songs imperfect end in sighs.

We only mourn; o'er flowery plains
To roam in joyous trance is thine;
And pleasures unallied to pains,
Unfading sweets, immortal wine.

R. BLAND.

CCCI

A DIRGE

NAIAD, hid beneath the bank,
By the willowy river-side,
Where Narcissus gently sank,

Where unmarried Echo died,

Unto thy serene repose

Waft the stricken Anterôs.

Where the tranquil swan is borne,
Imaged in a watery glass,

Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn
Stoop to catch the boats that pass,

Where the earliest orchid grows,

Bury thou fair Anterôs.

Glide we by, with prow and oar:
Ripple shadows off the wave,
And, reflected on the shore,
Haply play about the grave.
Folds of summer-light enclose
All that once was Anterôs.

On a flickering wave we gaze,

Not upon his answering eyes: