In vain. Though most unworthy,—yet I hear
A call—a voice,—too blest for mortal ear—"
And with a marble coldness on her cheek,
And one long moan, like breaking harp-string sweet,
She bare the unspoken lore to her Redeemer's feet.
xlviii.
Gone?—Gone?—Alas! the burst of wild despair
That rent his bosom who had lov'd so well;
He had not yet put forth his strength to bear,
So suddenly and sore the death-shaft fell:
Man hath a godlike might, in danger's hour,
In the red battle, or the tempest's power;
Yet is he weak when tides of anguish swell;
Ah, who can mark with cold and tearless eyes
The grief of stricken man, when his sole idol dies.
xlix.
And she had fled, in whom his heart's deep joy
Was garner'd up,—fled, like the rushing flame,
And left no farewell for her fair, young boy.
Lo! in his nurse's arms, he careless came,—
A noble creature, with his full dark eye,
And clustering curls, in nature's majesty;
But, with a sudden shriek, his mother's name
Burst from his lips, and, gazing on the clay,
He stretch'd his eager arms where the cold sleeper lay.
