A PRESENTIMENT 'OH father, let us hence-for hark, A winged giant sails the sky; 'Hush, child; it is a grateful sound, That beating of the summer shower; Here, where the boughs hang close around, Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, 'Nay, father, let us haste-for see, He scowls upon us now; His huge black arm is lifted high; 'Hush, child; but, as the father spoke, Close to his ear the thunder broke, The child lay dead; while, dark and still, THE CHILD'S FUNERAL FAIR is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore, ΙΟ 20 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, Yet even here, as under harsher climes, Tears for the loved and early lost are shed, Here once a child, a smiling playful one, The father strove his struggling grief to quell, 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, And orange blossoms on their dark-green stems. And now the hour is come; the priest is there; II 21 31 40 The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; 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, Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave- Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, 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 For truths which men receive not now, A friendless warfare! lingering long 48 ΙΟ 20 Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, The sage may frown-yet faint thou not. Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 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 FUTURE LIFE How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 30 40 II In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 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; Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, THE DEATH OF SCHILLER 'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, The homes and haunts of human-kind. Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, 20 30 |