xlv.
Sweet sounds of falling waters, cool and clear,—
The crystal streams,—her playmates, far away,—
Oft, oft, their dulcet music mock'd her ear,
As, restless, on her fever'd couch she lay;—
Strange visions hover'd round, and harpings high,
From spirit-bands,—and then her lustrous eye
Welcom'd the call,—but earth resum'd its sway,
And all its sacred ties convulsive twin'd.
How hard to spread the wing, and leave the lov'd behind.
xlvi.
Sunset in England,—at the autumn prime!
Thro' foliage rare, what floods of light were sent!
The full and whitening harvest knew its time,
And to the sickle of the reaper bent;
Forth rode the winged seeds upon the gale,
New homes to find,—but she, with lip so pale,
Who on the arm of her beloved leant,
Breath'd words of tenderness, with smile serene,
Tho' faint, and full of toil,—the gasp and groan between.
xlvii.
"Oh, dearest friend, Death, cometh!—He is here,—
Here, at my heart!—Air!—air!—that I may speak
My hoarded love, my gratitude sincere,
To thee and to thy people. But I seek
