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I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crush'd.-Oh! Heaven is far,-
Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am prov'd
Thou canst not!—thro' the silent night, ev'n now,
Aid!-comes there yet no aid?-the voice of blood
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood
Sinks thro' the greensward!-is there not a cry
From the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony,
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me! None That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun,
Have heavier cause!-yet hear!-my soul grows
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark,
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone,
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human hearts ?—th' o'ermastering wave! Who shall tell how it rush'd-and none to save?
Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board,
Thine! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair,
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore,
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf--Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief!
Death!-what, is death a lock'd and treasur'd thing, Guarded by swords of fire ? a hidden spring,
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure,
As if the world within me held no cure?
Wherefore not spread free wings-Heaven, Heaven!
These thoughts-they rush-I look into my soul
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array
Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray,
So shall their dark host pass.
The storm is still'd.
Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd,
Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child,
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee,
And peace at last is nigh.
A sign is on my brow, a token sent
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home: no breeze flits by,
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent Of many mysteries.
Hark! the warning tone
Deepens-its word is Death. Alone, alone,
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness,
Thee, its first love!-oh! tender still, and true!
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name,
Now, with fainting frame,
With soul just lingering on the flight begun,