I thought how sweet to lay me down, Tho' there Death strains his stingless power, And digs the narrow bed; He may not touch the tenderest flower That blooms above the dead. Tho' earth-born damps pervade within, Do their rude work on fruits of sin- I've watched it, as the dew-drops fell, And smile the live-long day to tell, Awhile may fade its painted coat, As sinks the setting sun; Bow its shut leaves, and seem to note Its sands of being run; But, as it feels the morning breath, Among its petals play; It shakes aside the dews of death, And greets the rising day. So droops the saint at set of sun; So sleeps the waning night; So hails, when Time's swift wheels have run, The resurrection-light. Such be my lot!-I ask no show But one fond tear from those I love, And one bright flower to bloom above, Thus, when He summons to my rest, My body to the earth's shut breast- POMPEII. SONNET. O THOU ! whose guilt-to other realms a sign- And here, 'mid desert-shrines, behold Pompeii's grave! THE BAY OF POZZUOLI. THE SOUTH-WIND BLEW, AND WE CAME TO PUTEOLI.-ACTS XXVIII. 13. FAIR sea! whose lines of rolling wave And seem, as the broad beach they lave, In murmurs soft to say, Is there a wand'rer on my breast? I'll bear him gently to his rest, And soothe his cares away; Here, where sweet flowers of thousand hues, Not thus,-not thus thine accents broke On Paul's awaken'd ear, When hoarse thy boiling waters spoke, Wrought by thy wrestlings drear ; |