A PRESENTIMENT

'OH father, let us hence-for hark,
A fearful murmur shakes the air;
The clouds are coming swift and dark ;-
What horrid shapes they wear!

A winged giant sails the sky;
Oh father, father, let us fly!

'Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,

That beating of the summer shower;

Here, where the boughs hang close around,
We'll pass a pleasant hour,

Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,
Has swept the broad heaven clear again.'

'Nay, father, let us haste-for see,
That horrid thing with hornèd brow—
His wings o'erhang this very tree,

He scowls upon us now;

His huge black arm is lifted high;
Oh father, father, let us fly!'

'Hush, child; but, as the father spoke,
Downward the livid firebolt came,

Close to his ear the thunder broke,
And, blasted by the flame,

The child lay dead; while, dark and still,
Swept the grim cloud along the hill.

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL

FAIR is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,

ΙΟ

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Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies; The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore, As clear and bluer still before thee lies. Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps; And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, Heap her green breast when April suns are bright, Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,

Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.

Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatman where they blow.

Yet even here, as under harsher climes,

Tears for the loved and early lost are shed,
That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes,
Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.

Here once a child, a smiling playful one,
All the day long caressing and caressed,
Died when its little tongue had just begun
To lisp the names of those it loved the best.

The father strove his struggling grief to quell,
The mother wept as mothers use to weep,
Two little sisters wearied them to tell

When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.

Within an inner room his couch they spread,

His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love, They laid a crown of roses on his head,

And murmured, Brighter is his crown above.'

They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet,
Laburnum's strings of sunny-coloured gems,
Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet,

And orange blossoms on their dark-green stems.

And now the hour is come; the priest is there;
Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go,
With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer,
To lay the little one in earth below.

II

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The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry;
Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play!
The little sisters laugh and leap, and try

To climb the bed on which the infant lay.

And there he sits alive, and gaily shakes

In his full hands, the blossoms red and white, And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes From long deep slumbers at the morning light.

THE BATTLE-FIELD

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armèd hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave-
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; Men start not at the battle cry

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year.
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

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Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,
And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown-yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

THE FUTURE LIFE

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps
The disembodied spirits of the dead,
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps
And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain
If there I meet thy gentle presence not;
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given?

My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,
And must thou never utter it in heaven?

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II

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind,
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,
And larger movements of the unfettered mind,
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?
The love that lived through all the stormy past,
And meekly with my harsher nature bore,
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,
Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will
In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll;
And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-
The wisdom which is love-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

THE DEATH OF SCHILLER

'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh,
The wish possessed his mighty mind,
To wander forth wherever lie

The homes and haunts of human-kind.

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams,
By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves;
Went up the New World's forest streams,
Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves;

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