Are there not in yon midnight sky
Planets, whose ruling sway
From our birth shape our destiny;—
Some that with darkling ray
In one fix'd mournful aspect shine?
Such natal star I feel is mine.
And once my horoscope was read,—
They said that I should have
A brightness o'er my pathway shed,
And then an early grave;
Feelings worn with a sense their own,
As chords burst by their own sweet tone.
I have one wish, 'tis wild and vain,
Yet still that wish will be,
That I might rest in yon wide main,
My tomb the mighty sea;
As if at once my spirit went
To blend with the vast element.
One day I saw a grave just made,
How drear, how dark, how cold:
There when the coffin had been laid,
They trampled down the mould:
A week more 'twas a step and seat
For heartless rest, and careless feet.
Be my death-pillow, where the rock
Admits no mortal tread—
No carved epitaph to mock
The now unconscious dead;
Or be my grave the billows deep,
Where the sun shines and the winds sweep.L. E. L.
