THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.
As an eagle struck in his upward flight,
So was her hope from its radiant height,
And her song went with it for evermore,
A gladness taken from sea and shore!
She had moved to the echoing sound of fame-
Silently, silently, died her name!
Silently melted her life away,
As ye have seen a young flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire,
Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire,
Leaving its channel all dry and mute
Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!
THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.
"How weeps yon gallant band
O'er him their valour could not save!
For the bayonet is red with gore,
And he, the beautiful and brave,
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand."
In the shadow of the pyramid
Our brother's grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.
The blood-red sky above us
Was darkening into night,
And the Arab watching silently
Our sad and hurried rite.
The voice of Egypt's river
Came hollow and profound,
And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, Rock'd with a shivery sound:
While the shadow of the Pyramid
Hung o'er the grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.
The fathers of our brother
Were borne to knightly tombs,
With torch-light and with anthem-note,
And many waving plumes:
But he, the last and noblest
Of that high Norman race,
With a few brief words of soldier-love
Was gather'd to his place;
In the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his youthful form we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey'd.
But let him, let him slumber
By the old Egyptian wave!
It is well with those who bear their fame Unsullied to the grave!
TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.
When brightest names are breathed on,
When loftiest fall so fast,
We would not call our brother back
On dark days to be cast,-
From the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his noble heart we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert's parting sun
A field of death survey❜d.
TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.
"Ave Maria! May our spirits dare
Look up to thine, and to thy Son's above?"
FAIR Vision! thou'rt from sunny skies,
Born where the rose hath richest dyes;
To thee a southern heart hath given
That glow of love, that calm of heaven,
And round thee cast th' ideal gleam,
The light that is but of a dream.
Far hence, where wandering music fills
The haunted air of Roman hills,
Or where Venetian waves of yore
Heard melodies, they hear no more,
Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle
Hath known the sweetness of thy smile.
Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine,
'Mid forests of the Appenine,
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell
Pass like a floating anthem-swell,
Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way
Shed blessings with their gentle ray.
Or gleaming through a chestnut wood,
Perchance thine island-chapel stood,
Where from the blue Sicilian sea,
The sailor's hymn hath risen to thee,
And bless'd thy power to guide, to save,
Madonna! watcher of the wave!
Oh! might a voice, a whisper low,
Forth from those lips of beauty flow!
Could'st thou but speak of all the tears
The conflicts, and the pangs of years,
Which, at thy secret shrine reveal'd,
Have gush'd from human hearts unseal'd!
Surely to thee hath woman come,
As a tired wanderer back to home!
Unveiling many a timid guest,
And treasured sorrow of her breast,
A buried love-a wasting care-
Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?
And did the poet's fervid soul
To thee lay bare its inmost scroll?
Those thoughts, which pour'd their quenchless fire
And passion o'er th' Italian lyre,
Did they to still submission die,
Beneath thy calm, religious eye?
A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.
And hath the crested helmet bow'd
Before thee, 'midst the incense-cloud?
Hath the crown'd leader's bosom lone,
To thee its haughty griefs made known?
Did thy glance break their frozen sleep,
And win the unconquer'd one to weep?
Hush'd is the anthem-closed the vow
The votive garland wither'd now;
Yet holy still to me thou art,
Thou that hast sooth'd so many a heart!
And still must blessed influence flow
From the meek glory of thy brow.
Still speak to suffering woman's love,
Of rest for gentle hearts above;
Of hope, that hath its treasure there,
Of home, that knows no changeful air!
Bright form, lit up with thoughts divine,
Ave! such power be ever thine!
A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.
How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!
The bridal-day-the festival-the tomb-
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of love or grief,
Dreams, fill'd with tokens of mortality,
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.
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