I will kneel down and worship it, when night
Comes in the deep religion of repose,
Silence and darkness, and the heart, opprest
In its own feelings, seeks some other world
To which it may confide the cares of this,
And sends up prayers from instinct more than duty.
Then, thou sweet saint! when the pale moonlight fills
Thine eyes with light as they were animate
With life and pity, I will kneel to thee there.
There was one once on earth, tho' now in heaven,
So very like thee, I can well believe
In praying thee I pray a guardian spirit—
Mine own Ianthe! mine, now that the grave,
Saving thy memory, has all of thee.
Will not thine influence be on the heart
That would have chastened feelings, holy thoughts,
Only that it may share thy heaven with thee? - -
- - - The garden is a wilderness, and filled
With trees degenerate from their cultured growth,
And covered with white snowdrops, like a shrowd:
The only flower remaining, cold and pale
And without scent, as a heart without hope.
In the midst is a fountain choked with weeds,
The fallen crucifix there lies concealed—
I'd rear it up again and clear the fount,
And set the waters flowing, and would dig
My grave beside, for it would be like sleep
To die soothed by the lulling of their fall:
It would not be such utter solitude
In my last hour, if I could pass away
In hearing of their sweet familiar sound.
Iole.
