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There chance and change are not; the soul
Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years, through endless ages, roll,
From sin and sorrow free:
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,
New raptures to impart ;
Oh! dare we call thee still our boy,
A little while-a little while-
How sinful to deplore!
Oh! that we were where now thou art,
TO THE MEMORY OF D. M. M.
BRIGHTLY the sun illumes the skies,
Have poured forth tears like summer rain!
Two years agone, and where shone hearth
Five fairies knit our thoughts to earth
With bands like steel, tho' wreath'd of flowers:
How wildly warm, how softly sweet,
The spells that bade our hearts rejoice ; While echo'd round us pattering feet,
And voices-that seem'd Joy's own voice!
Then light and life illumed each eye,
That would not-could not rest; but now-
The spell is broken! never more
The perish'd and the past away!
Yet, O dear lost ones! ye are not,
And half the heart is in your tomb!
Sudden it fell, the fatal shaft,
That struck blithe Charlie down in death; And, while Grief's bitterest cup we quaff'd, We turn'd to watch wee Willie's breath,
That faintly ebb'd, and ebb'd away,
Till all was still; and, ere the sun
And next, dear David, thou art gone!
Beloved boy, and can it be,
That now to us remains alone
Our unavailing grief for thee?
Yet, when we trace thine upward track
Summer was on the hills; the trees
And birds whose songs were never mute; But 'twas even then, dear boy, when flowers, O'ermantling earth, made all things gay,
That winter of the heart was ours,
And thine the hues of pale decay!
Yes! David, but two moons agone,
An infant Samson, vigour shone
In thy knit frame and fearless brow. Oh! how our inmost souls it stirr'd,
To listen to thine alter'd tongue,
And see thee moping like a bird,
Whose strength was like the lion's young.
Yet so it was;-and, day by day,
Unquench'd thy thirst for sun and air,
Down the smooth walks, with blossoms gay,
Wistful, the beds of bloom survey,
Now gleams the west, a silver sea
That all thy days and nights are told?
Can pierce through Death's Cimmerian gloom, Can bid the dead awake, and say
"Arise! 'tis morning in the tomb" ?
Yes! such there is; and thou that voice
That Heaven is now thy dwelling made-