Apres. OWN, down, Ellen, my little one DOWN Climbing so tenderly up to my knee; Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me, Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me? Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one Warbling so fairily close to my ear; Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me, This that I made for your mother to hear? Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one— Wailing so wearily under the stars; Why should I think of her tears, that make light to me, Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars? Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one Is she not like her, whenever she stirs ? Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me, Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave, Something more white than her bosom is spared to me, Something to cling to, and something to crave: Love, love, Ellen, my little one! Love indestructible, love undefiled, Love through all deeps of her spirit, lies bared to me, ARTHUR J. MUNBY. FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. 181 Farewell to his Wife. ARE thee well! and if forever, FA Still forever, fare thee well; Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Would that breast by thee glanced over Though the world for this commend thee— Though it smile upon the blow, E'en its praises must offend thee Though my many faults defaced me, Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; Still thine own its life retaineth— Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow And when thou wouldst solace gather, When her little hands shall press thee, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults, perchance, thou knowest, Every feeling hath been shaken; But 'tis done-all words are idle- Fare thee well! thus disunited, Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die! LORD BYRON. WATCHING. 183 Watching. LEEP, love, sleep! SLEE The dusty day is done. Lo! from afar the freshening breezes sweep Down from the towering palm, In at the open casement cooling run, And round thy lowly bed, Thy bed of pain, Bathing thy patient head, Like grateful showers of rain, They come; While the white curtains, waving to and fro, Fan the sick air; And pityingly the shadows come and go, With gentle human care, Compassionate and dumb. The dusty day is done, While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep! Is there no magic in the touch of fingers thou dost love so much? Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now; Or, with its mute caress, The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press Upon thy weary lid and aching brow; While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep! On the pagoda spire The bells are swinging, Their little golden circlet in a flutter With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter, Till all are ringing, As if a choir Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing; And with a lulling sound The music floats around, And drops like balm into the drowsy ear; Of the Sepoy's distant drum, And lazy beetle ever droning near. So silent that I sometimes start The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes, At such strange quiet after day's harsh din; And looks about, And with his hollow feet Treads his small evening beat, Darting upon his prey In such a tricky, winsome sort of way, His delicate marauding seems no sin. And still the curtains swing, But noiselessly; The bells a melancholy murmur ring, As tears were in the sky: More heavily the shadows fall, Like the black foldings of a pall, Where juts the rough beam from the wall; The candles flare With fresher gusts of air; The beetle's drone Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan; Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt, alone. EMILY C. JUdson. |