For oh! tho' painful be th' excess, The might wherewith it swells, In nature's fount no bitterness Of nature's mingling, dwells; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, Poison'd the free and healthful tide. But didst thou meet the face no more, And all-was all in this world o'er, It was!-On earth no other eye No other voice could pierce the maze Where deep within thy breast, The sounds and dreams of other days, With memory lay at rest; No other smile to thee could bring A gladd'ning, like the breath of spring. Yet, while thy place of weeping still Its lone memorial keeps, While on thy name, midst wood and hill, The quiet sunshine sleeps, And touches, in each graven line, Of reverential thought a sign; Can I, while yet these tokens wear The impress of the dead, Think of the love embodied there, As of a vision fled? A perish'd thing, the joy and flower Not so!-I will not bow me so, To thoughts that breathe despair! A loftier faith we need below, Life's farewell words to bear. Mother and child!--Your tears are past- Surely your hearts have met at last! THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.* "Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ;— Spring-odours breath'd around, And music, in the river-wave, Pass'd with a lulling sound. * Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.-Tales by the O'Hara Family. All happy things that love the sun And a glad murmur seem'd to run Thro' the soft azure sky. Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough Young voices were abroad-but thou And mournful grew my heart for thee, Thou in whose woman's mind The ray that brightens earth and sea, The light of song was shrined. Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, With a dread curtain drawn Between thee and the golden glow Of this world's vernal dawn. Parted from all the song and bloom Thou wouldst have lov'd so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb The bird, the insect on the wing, Might feel the flush and life of spring,- But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought O'er my vain sadness came; Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame. Surely on lovelier things, I said, Thou must have look'd ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odours and hues below. |